


Eager to gain experience

by wtfkovah



Series: Sweater Vest Stories [8]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Boss/Employee Relationship, Christmas Fluff, Cute, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Out of Character, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: Things are heating up....this Christmas.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: Sweater Vest Stories [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736101
Comments: 52
Kudos: 307





	1. Welcome to the CCCC

**Author's Note:**

> RE-UPLOAD

“Jihoon—this is so sweet of you. I really didn’t expect you to get me anything.” Seungkwan grins, twisting the scarf around his neck.

It's a light green that brings out the hazel in his eyes, and why it was Jihoon's second favourite choice. 

“I’m glad you like it. I wanted to get you a blue one, to match your favourite suit, but I didn’t really have a lot of time to shop around for the right shade.”

Seungkwan does a little turn, examining his reflection in the window, “I’m surprised you got time to shop at all. Two nights in Paris sounds amazing at first, until you factor in all the work and meetings and _errands;_ Mr Choi probably had you running around like a headless chicken. Poor Hoonie, you must be exhausted.”

Jihoon waves him off, “I am, but a good kind of exhausted. I actually really enjoyed the trip.”

Seungkwan offers him a sad little smile and pats his head, “Always such a little optimist aren’t ya? But you don’t have to be like that around me, it’s okay to bitch about your boss every once in a while. And hey, you never know, maybe one day you’ll get to go back to Paris without _him_ there ruining the experience for you.”

Jihoon frowns at him, not unkindly; it’s not Seungkwan’s fault that he’s getting only half the picture here.

Or more like, a _quarter_ of the picture—heavily photoshopped and filtered and completely inaccurate as far as Seungcheol’s behaviour in Paris is concerned.

It’s Jeonghan’s fault really, because somewhere between introducing Jeonghan to Berry Beret, gifting him his Eiffel Tower pen and giving him a blow by blow account of his trip to Paris, the Vice-CEO had stopped Jihoon to tell him he should not, under no certain terms, tell anyone else about what exactly he got up to on the trip.

Jihoon had been a little upset about that—because he’d planned to tell absolutely everyone who would listen about his amazing experience and how lovely Seungcheol had been. But Jeonghan had been strangely insistent, warning Jihoon that if word got out, Seungcheol could be accused of _favouritism_. That there might be people out there looking for just this sort of information to use against him.

That he could even get in _trouble_ for it.

The words ‘character assassination’ and ‘personal liability’ were thrown around with the weight of medieval gauntlets and Jihoon couldn’t help but be a little scared. The last thing he wants is for Seungcheol to get in any sort of trouble. So he’s been, very reluctantly, vague about the details; biting his tongue and doing his best to play down the whole wonderful trip.

Which sucks. A lot.

He’s got a ton of pictures and stories to share and only Seokmin to share them with. ☹

“So what are your plans for Christmas?” Seungkwan’s voice breaks through his morose daze, “Are you heading home for the holidays?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to answer, when he notices movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns in his seat to find Vernon standing on the other side of the glass partition, fogging the window with his breath as he stares at Seungkwan with rapt attention.

Seungkwan doesn’t looked particularly surprised to find Vernon hovering outside his office like a super stalker. If anything, his expression shifts from bored to distinctly _unwelcoming_ in the blink of an eye as Vernon finally rounds the glass and steps inside. 

“Hello Vernon!” Jihoon chirps.

Seungkwan doesn’t attempt his own greeting; his dismissive up and down look perfectly conveys, ‘What do _you_ want?’

“I just came by to ask if you had any plans this weekend.” Vernon offers by way of explanation.

“Yes, I have plans.” Seungkwan answers without missing a beat.

His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of anger to it. Jihoon can feel it buzzing in the air around him and wonders if he’ll make everything more awkward by trying to slip away. Before he can even attempt it though, Seungkwan shoots him a look that clearly says _‘Don’t you dare leave’_ that has him parking his ass right back on his seat.

Vernon catches the look and divides his _own_ look between them, almost pensive, before he says, “What about next Saturday. I’ve got tickets for this—”

“Got plans then too.”

Vernon blinks, looking mole-like in his bewilderment. “Okay, what about—”

“I’m busy for the foreseeable future. Sorry.” Seungkwan is quick to dismiss.

Jihoon watches Vernon's expression go from confused to angry to accepting in the space of a blink.

“Okay. Well—let me know when you _are_ free. Maybe we could do something?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Seungkwan answers faintly, attention already elsewhere.

Jihoon watches Vernon leave, a defeated slope to his shoulders, then whips his head around to frown at his friend.

Sometimes he wants to shake Seungkwan. For all his intelligence, sometimes he’s absolutely clueless about things that involve people or their _feelings_.

“That was harsh Boo. You were really curt with him. Aren’t you _guys_ —”

“No, we’re not.” Seungkwan snaps, though he quickly musters an apologetic look, “Listen Jihoonie, you know this thing with Vernon was never going to be long term. We both agreed it was just going to be a bit of casual fun, and just because _he’s_ decided to change the rules and develop _feelings_ , doesn’t mean I’m changing my mind. It might seem harsh to you, but we had our fun and now it’s over and the sooner Vernon accepts that, the better.”

Jihoon thinks that's the biggest load of bull he's ever heard, but decides to let the topic die a natural death.

He’s sworn off the match making business for life, and obviously Seungkwan and Vernon would work things out on their own time, in their own way. 

* * *

Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year and that’s no joke. The second Halloween ends, all the storefronts and shelves are cleared and it’s fucking Christmas till the 26th of December.

It’s Christmas in the shops, it’s Christmas in the streets, it's Christmas in the _sheets,_ it’s Christmas on the TV and it’s even Christmas in Seungcheol’s fucking email inbox. It’s wall to wall Christmas everywhere he looks, and it gets harder for Seungcheol tolerate each year.

Not because he’s a miserable bastard that doesn’t appreciate the atmosphere of merriment and joy the season brings, but because he’s a miserable bastard who _does_. It’s hard to grin and bear it when everyone’s already out shopping and making plans to see their loved ones and Seungcheol can’t do any of that—doesn’t really have anyone to do that _with_.

Well—

That’s not entirely accurate. 

He _does_ have an outstanding invitation to join Janna and her family at their ranch every year, but he always politely declines because despite the history stacked up between them, it still feels like an imposition. As does the offer to join his brother and his latest 'flavour of the month' for his annual Ski trip to Verbier. A Christmas with his father never ends well; a lawsuit, if he remembers correctly. And the last Christmas he spent with his mother was clearly a poorly disguised attempt at arranging his next marriage.

He manages pretty well on his own usually, but this year he’s struggling to shift aside the bitterness more than ever before. It probably doesn’t help that Jihoon’s _here_ , in his face, a reminder of everything he wants. So, so close and yet…so out of reach.

It also probably doesn’t help that Jihoon is, unsurprisingly, a very _Christmassy_ person.

Come the 1st of December, Jihoon is just as bounce-off-the-walls happy as Seungcheol had imagined him to be; rushing around with his little festive sweater vests and his little Santa hats; baking all manner of Christmas treats and writing his little Christmas cards. Even now, sitting at his desk, he’s too festive for Seungcheol to even _look_ at. What with the little reindeer antlers poking out of his hair and his Christmas tree post it notes and the classic green, red and gold paper chains he’s decorated his little corner of the room with.

And Seungcheol’s happy for him, truly, but would it be so hard to dial it back a bit? For Seungcheol’s miserable sake?

Misery loves company after all.

Grumbling under his breath, Seungcheol twists his seat to glare out the window behind his desk. Even with his back turned—even _all_ away across the room, he can still hear Christmas music pumping out of Jihoon’s earphones.

The little Peanut has insisted on listening to Christmas music all damn week, and by now Seungcheol is ready to pay a handsome price for a hitman to put a bullet between Michael Bublé’s eyes if it would get him some peace and quiet.

He doesn’t say anything, of course, because it’s clear that it soothes Jihoon, probably makes him think of home. For all Seungcheol knows, it might well be a Lee family tradition.

He can just imagine the cute little home Jihoon grew up in, with the Christmas tree in the corner, the stockings hanging on the mantle, the fireplace wreathed in holly and ivy and sprigs of mistletoe to complete the impression….and Michael fucking Bublé _warbling_ away in the background.

 _Eugh_.

“I hate the holidays.” He finally admits out loud, twisting his seat back around just in time to catch Jihoon creeping across the room, an extra Santa hat in hand.

He was obviously attempting, in his charming yet predictable little Peanuty ways, to stealthily Santa Hat Seungcheol’s head when he wasn’t looking. But Seungcheol’s announcement seems to have knocked the wind out of his sails, so now he’s standing in the middle of the room, with a crestfallen look on his face and a Santa hat dangling from his fingers.

“You…you don’t like _Christmas_?” He whispers, utterly devastated, like Seungcheol’s just threatened to burn all the Christmas trees, outlaw presents and eat baby Jesus.

Seungcheol shrugs carelessly, “Well—I’m not religious, so the symbolism is wasted on me. That just leaves the rampant materialism and for me, that’s just another day in the calendar. Except suddenly everyone wants a week off and expects presents. So it’s a slightly _shittier_ day in the calendar.”

Jihoon gapes, perturbed. “But—what about all the cheer and love and _joy_ of spending time with your family?”

“Peanut—” Seungcheol sighs, slumping back in his seat. “Look at me. Do I _look_ like a man who enjoys spending time with his family?”

“Yes?” Jihoon answers hopefully.

Seungcheol gusts a sore, humourless laugh.

He is possessed – not for the first time – by the urge to boop his PA.

“No. Sorry to burst your cheerful little bubble Peanut, but a good Christmas for me is being on a beach somewhere, far away from all the lights and sounds and interacting with as few people as possible. _Especially_ my family.”

Jihoon considers that carefully, a pout pulling on his lips, “What about when you were younger? Don’t you have nice memories of your childhood Christmases’?”

Seungcheol scratches his chin, debating the merits of depressing Jihoon with stories of his very public, yet very solitary nanny-tended childhood.

Back then, his parents were still living together—but no more in love and no less ambitious with their careers. The annual Choi Christmas Eve party was the most important corporate meet-and-greet of the season, the guest list sometimes numbering in the hundreds. There were businessmen and politicians from all over Seoul, as well as activist-minded B-list celebrities and other ambitious people, happy to sacrifice quiet family time to further their own personal agendas.

The party would go on well into the night, so by the time Christmas Day rolled around his parents were simply too tired to make time. Every year it would just be Seungcheol and Seungmin, opening their presents under the supervision of their live-in nanny, until they were old enough not to fight about who got what. 

“I guess.” Seungcheol finally answers, having decided those memories are not worth sharing. “What about you though? What are _you_ doing for Christmas?” He asks instead.

It’s not some lame attempt at conversational brick dodging; he’s been meaning to ask Jihoon what his plans are for some time, during the few moments he hasn’t been selfishly obsessing over his own personal life.

Jihoon perks up noticeably as he answers.

“I’m spending it with my mom. We’ve spent every Christmas together since I was born.”

Seungcheol’s brow furrows, “Just the two of you?”

Jihoon bobs his head, “Pretty much. Sometimes my grandparents come to visit, but they don’t celebrate like we do. We have all these little traditions we do every year without fail, and I guess they don’t understand how important it is to us. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice when they _do_ come, but for a long time it was just me and my mom and we always made the best of it.”

“What about your father?” Seungcheol asks casually.

It seems like the most obvious next step in their conversation, to ask about the rest of Jihoon’s family while they’re on the topic, but it’s obviously an area better left untouched because Jihoon’s face goes still; the light of excitement snuffing out in an instant.

“I—” He says, mouth shifting into a slanted line, “Never knew him.”

“Oh, shit. I’m—I’m sorry.” Seungcheol sputters, mortified, “I didn’t mean to bring up a—”

“No, don’t be. It’s fine,” Jihoon waves him off easily. Though his jaw flickers with some hidden struggle a moment later, “Can’t lose something you never had. At least, that’s what my grandfather tells me—but he’s always been pretty bitter about it. More bitter than my mom actually, and if anyone should be feeling bitter about him, it should be her.”

Seungcheol begins a smile that falters, falling into a frown as he realises what Jihoon’s saying.

What’s he _not_ saying to be precise. 

He has a sudden, very unwelcome realization that Jihoon’s father is not dead, just a complete piece of shit.

“Ah," He grimaces—torn by the crushing awkwardness of continuing along this thread of conversation and his own inability to swallow the words. “By _never knew him_ , I assumed you’d meant he’d passed away.” 

Some of the bowstring tension ebbs from Jihoon’s shoulders.

“Oh no—well, _maybe_. For all I know he could have, but I guess I’ll never know. My mom doesn’t really like to talk about it, and I’m sort of past the age of asking those questions. That last time I saw him was a month before my fourth Birthday, and he was never around that much before that. I don’t remember what he looks like and there aren’t any pictures of him, so even if I bumped into him on the street, I wouldn’t even know it was him. Guess that’s for the best.”

Seungcheol drums his fingers against the armrest, fidgety now, at loose ends with this new information while his mind chafes at the lack of detail in the story.

He could pry further if he wanted, find out more, but it’s really not his place to ask and Jihoon is already looking the worst kind of uncomfortable—that oversharing level of uncomfortable you reach when you’re trying to assure the world you’re fine about something you’re _clearly_ not fine about.

It’s probably best to divert the topic to safer waters for now.

“So your mom raised you by herself? That’s pretty impressive—she must be very proud of you,” Seungcheol hears himself say the words, hopes they sound as sincere to Jihoon’s ears as they do to his own.

There’s a shy little smile from Jihoon, to go along with his shy little dimples.

“I hope so,” He scratches his head and looks past Seungcheol’s shoulder at the window, contemplating the yellow-grey sky with a scrunch in his forehead and a cute little pensive pout. “I know it mustn’t have been easy for her, doing it alone, but she never let it stop her. She just kept smiling and working really hard to make sure I had everything I needed growing up. She’s kind of my role model in that way.”

The blue in his eyes seems to shimmer as they catch the light from outside, and Seungcheol can’t stop staring, drinking in the sight of the gorgeous, frustrating, wonderful man who has managed to make himself at home under Seungcheol’s skin without Seungcheol so much as noticing.

“You have beautiful eyes.” The words are out before Seungcheol can bite his tongue.

Jihoon looks back at him and their eyes lock for a long moment. “Huh?”

Belatedly realising he’s been caught _mooning_ , Seungcheol clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably.

“You’re eyes. They’re uhm, I was just wondering if—if you had your mother’s eyes.” He says, and regrets it almost immediately.

One corner of Jihoon’s mouth twitches up in a sad, bitter half-smile 

“They’re his.” He swallows thickly. “Only thing he gave me.”

Silence drops over them; a weighty, awful silence because Seungcheol just _had_ to go and invoke the neglectful father card again without realising it. He resettles his weight on his chair, trying and failing to ease the twisting of his guts, the anger clawing at his insides because what an _asshole_ —what kind of fucking asshole walks out on his family?

On a four-year old kid.

A _baby_ Peanut.

Just the thought of it, a tiny baby Peanut reaching out to hold a hand that was never there has him itching to reach for his phone. There’s a number of things he could do; he could yell at Jeonghan about it, because Jeonghan has officially become the sponge of all his Jihoon-is-to-cute-for-this-world rants; he could contact his PI and have him research Jihoon’s family history, find out of his father’s still alive and where he lives, then Seungcheol can meet him in person and give him the swift kick to the balls he deserves.

Is that too much? Is he being a teensy-weensy bit over-protective here?

Probably.

He doesn’t think Jihoon would appreciate the gesture either. He’d probably be like _‘No Seungcheol, kicking people in the balls is mean’_ and make Seungcheol apologize. And Seungcheol would have to, cause he’s that _whipped_.

Fuck—it’s bad isn’t it. Pretty bad that he’s ready to call up private investigators and kick men he’s never met in the _balls_ to breathe life into Jihoon’s smile again. Honestly, he’s ready to do anything to make Jihoon smile at any given moment. Even embarrass himself if it came to it.

Then he spots the Santa hat Jihoon’s holding onto so tightly, and there’s nothing else for it.

“You wanna put that hat on my head, don’t you?”

Jihoon’s mask of composure breaks into a delightful demure smile, even though he still doesn’t look directly at Seungcheol.

“Yes please.”

Sighing, as though it pains him greatly, Seungcheol waves a hand, “Alright—have at it.”

“Yay.” Jihoon cheers, bouncing forward, hat in hand.

He drops it over Seungcheol’s head and tugs it down over his ears, fixes his hair a little, then stands back to admire his work and smiles. Just smiles. Dimples glorious and unclouded.

“I take it from your expression I look like a dork.” Seungcheol drawls, but his mouth is curling at the edges now. Because Jihoon is his happy adorable self again, and that’s all he cares about.

Jihoon fiddles with his lanyard, looking sheepish but also pleased. Seungcheol watches him chew his lip for a moment, hesitant, before he finally blurts out, “Can I take a selca with you?”

“A what?”

“A selca? You know, a self-camera? Like a selfie? For my Insta?”

Approximately 75% of that sentence makes no sense whatsoever to Seungcheol, but he’s not about to deny Jihoon anything right now.

“Sure. Why the hell not.”

Jihoon ‘ _yays’_ again and pulls out his cell-phone, then to Seungcheol’s surprise, he perches on the armrest and presses closer, until they’re nearly cheek to cheek. “Say cheese!”

The camera lens flashes, blinding, and by the time Seungcheol regains his sight, Jihoon’s up on his feet again, giggling at whatever he’s captured on his phone.

“You’re not going to spread that picture around, are you?” Seungcheol asks, rubbing at his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Jihoon snickers, tapping away on his phone. “My Instagram account is private. I only have five friends on it and none of them know who you are. Well, except Seokmin.”

“Private huh?” Seungcheol can’t help the smirk that creeps onto his face. Adjusting the hat a little, he chuckles, “Private like your super special secret private diary?”

Jihoon freezes with his finger still hovering over his phone screen, and for a brief horrific moment Seungcheol thinks he’s done it again, he’s reminded Jihoon of something wrong and hurtful and tragic and terrible, even if he can’t for the life of him work out what it was. But then Jihoon points at him, brows pinched, and gasps, “How do _you_ know about my super special secret private diary?”

Seungcheol holds his hands up defensively, “Because I saw you _writing_ in it—on the plane. Remember how you almost punched my lights out for trying to sneak a peek?”

Understanding filters across Jihoon’s features and his face practically lights up with relief. “Oh—oh yeah. Phew. You almost had me worried there for a second.”

Seungcheol watches him skip back to his desk, wondering _‘What the hell is in that diary’_ and more importantly _‘how the hell do I get my hands on it?’_

* * *

Jihoon sees the poster during his lunch hour.

It’s tacked to the notice board in the canteen, partially hidden behind weeks’ worth of memo’s and announcements and threats of dismemberment that read, _‘THIEF. I know who you are. Stop stealing my lunch!’._

It’s the image of the Reindeer superimposed in the corner that first catches his attention, not because it looks pretty, but because it’s so so very _crappy_. It’s like someone with no drive and terrible IT skills designed the thing—barely putting in the effort to orientate the image correctly and even leaving the stock image watermark smack bang in the centre. It’s only once he removes it off the board does he become truly interested in what it’s advertising.

_Christmas Part!y—volunteers needed!_

_12:30-13:30_

_Mon, Wed, Fri—Room 22C._

Which is how Jihoon finds himself standing outside Room 22C the next day, knocking gently.

When nobody answers, he pushes the door open and finds four people gathered around the conference desk, drinking coffee. Two men and two women who all look to be in their late twenties, except for a petite brunette in a stripy blouse who looks barely old enough to be out of college. Not that Jihoon’s one to talk.

“Hello, I’m Jihoon! Maybe I got the wrong place, but I—”

“This room is in use—can’t you see the notice?” One of the men snaps. He’s lanky, and vicious-looking, but not terribly tall, with a mop of dirty blond hair. He looks like he’s been sleeping in his clothes for at least a few days, and the smell of cigarettes around him is powerful.

Jihoon tries not to wrinkle his nose as he steps closer, “Oh, no—I’m here because I saw a flyer on the canteen notice board, asking for volunteers to help with the Christmas party, and I’d like to help.”

The man gives Jihoon the full eye-rake, a once over like he’s some kind of snooty debutant, before grunting, "Fine, take a seat," and steps aside to let Jihoon duck into the office.

Jihoon shuffles in quickly and grabs the lone empty chair, between the baby-faced brunette and a heart-faced red head with a wincing white smile. Jihoon smiles back and tries to introduce himself, _again_ , when Smelly Angry man clears his throat loudly, demanding silence.

“I’m Kim Chul-Moo, the chairman. This is Choon-Hee our Activities and events manager; Chan-mi our legal and marketing coordinator, and this is Chan-sung, our accountant. We’re the CCCC.”

Jihoon gasps, awestruck, “Because all your names begin with a C!”

“No—” the group share a surprised look, implying they’ve only just become aware of that very fact. “Because we’re the Choi Corp Celebratory Committee.”

“Oh, right.” Jihoon smiles sheepishly. Scooting his chair a little closer to the table he adds, “That’s neat. I didn’t even know the company _had_ a celebratory committee.”

Chul-Moo’s answering eyeroll is a little unnecessary, but he doesn’t say a word as he stands and moves over to the whiteboard on the far side and starts wiping it down.

“It’s not an officially recognised committee or anything.” Choon-Hee, the red head, whispers, nudging him with her elbow gently. “All those titles, Chul-Moo just made them up so we _sound_ more official, but really—we’re not all that. We just get a little extra in our paychecks every month to organise special events for the employees, buy cake when its’s someone’s birthday and flowers when someone’s handed in their notice.”

“Oh wow, that sounds like fun though. I love planning parties and organising cake for everyone. Can I join?” Jihoon asks, looking around the table for confirmation.

“No.” Chul-Moo answers from across the room. He’s busy writing on the whiteboard, sketching out a meticulous to-do list for the party: date, theme, budget and location, and doesn’t bother facing Jihoon as he says, “There are only four positions available and they’re all filled. You’re here in a voluntary capacity only, and we can’t afford to pay someone else to be on the committee.”

Jihoon’s enthusiasm wilts a little.

The cool indifference of Chul-Moo’s tone makes him cautious. The last thing he wants is to step on anyone’s toes.

“B-but—I don’t _mind_ about not getting paid. I’d just thought it would be cool to be a member of something, you know—so I could help plan fun things for the staff. I think throwing a Christmas party sounds like lots of fun, as well as a great opportunity to meet colleagues from other departments you wouldn’t normally get a chance to meet. And I’m really good with organising and cooking and crafts, so I can help with the snack preparation and decorations if—if you’re still looking for someone.”

Chul-Moo stops writing long enough to shoot Jihoon a quelling look over his shoulder, “As I said—”

“Of course, you can join Jihoon.” Choon-Hee says with a half-smile. Then a little louder for the benefit of everyone in the room, “I think at this stage we could use all the help we can _get_.”

Chul-Moo makes a face like he really wants to argue, but can’t summon the energy to. He turns back to his whiteboard instead, grumbling under his breath.

“Choon-Hee’s right—" Chan-sung says, nodding in agreement. His dark hair and wire-rim glasses remind Jihoon a little of Wonwoo, and he even adopts the same serious brow game as he explains, “We’ve got less than three weeks to plan this thing and we _still_ haven’t decided on a budget yet.”

“Oh, well—what was the budget for the _last_ party?” Jihoon asks, trying to be helpful.

Chan-sung looks to Choon-Hee, who looks back to him, neither of them with a ready answer.

“It’s in the region of 370 dollars.” Chan-sung manages at last. Then a little more sheepishly, “350 now that we’ve bought coffee.”

“That’s—” Shockingly low, Jihoon thinks, "—pretty do-able.” He says, because he is, above all things, an optimist.

The pen in Chul-Moo’s hand goes squeaking over the whiteboard in a messy line as he turns to level him a scathing look, “For four hundred office-based _employees_? Are you stupid or something? It was a miracle we managed to pull off anything last year, and we had double our current budget back then.”

“It probably helped that only 50 people showed up.” Choon-Hee points out, then she lowers her voice to whisper at Jihoon again, “Our parties don’t exactly bring in the crowds.”

“Can you blame them?” Chan-sung snorts, having heard her whisper just fine. “Who wants to spend their evening at a shit company party where they have to pay for their own _drinks_? Nobody, that’s who.”

Chul-Moo tsks knowingly and looks around, “We used to throw much better parties, back when we had a reasonable budget to play with. Then Mr Hong dropped it—after the disastrous Christmas spectacular of 2012. And we all know who’s fault _that_ is.” He says, narrowing his eyes at Chan-Mi.

Chan-mi feigns a hurt look, colour rising in her baby-round cheeks, “I hope you’re not suggesting it’s _mine_. I didn’t hire that stripper!”

“It’s nobody’s fault.” Choon-Hee assures, trying to defuse the tension, “Let’s not ignore the fact that Mr Hong has _never_ been that supportive of the committee, and he was always just waiting for the right excuse to phase us out.”

“That’s true.” Chan-sung mutters, rubbing his nose. His already impassive face turns stony, his chin tipping down until Jihoon can’t even see his eyes for the reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “We’ve done everything we can to get Mr Hong to increase the budget since—but every time we apply for a revision, he just makes the same tired old excuses about how we’re all having to make _sacrifices_ to adjust for the recession—even though he just approved for a complete remodelling of the canteen in the executive suite. _Jerk_.”

Jihoon considers him curiously. “Well—is Mr Hong the _only_ one who can approve a budget increase?”

Chul-Moo, who has finally retaken his seat, slants his gaze to the side; he appears bored by the question. “He’s the HR manager—who _else_ is there?”

“No, wait—maybe Jihoon has a point.” Chan-sung gasps, clicking his fingers. “What if there’s someone else with the authority to bump up our budget? Someone higher up that Mr Hong, but more amendable? We could go over Mr Hong’s head.”

“Oh, oh—” Chan-mi flails a hand, demanding attention. “There’s that new-ish Vice CEO…Mr _Yoon._ He seems like a ‘my door is always open’ kind of guy, and I get the impression he and Mr Hong have a _rivalry_ of sorts. He might just be our ticket.”

“No.” Chul-Moo grunts, crossing his arms over his chest belligerently. “If there’s a rivalry there, I don’t want to be the one fanning the flames. Mr Hong would really have it out for us if we try and go over his head like that.”

Jihoon makes an understanding noise. Then a devious little thought occurs to him.

He has devious thoughts...occasionally. 

“But…. maybe if we went _high_ enough over his head, he couldn’t do anything about it.” He suggests tentatively.

Chan-sung's eyebrows shoot up. “Who are you suggesting, Jihoon?”

Jihoon smiles. He can feel excitement and mischief lighting his eyes as he says, “We could always ask Mr Choi?”

The sudden silence than falls over the room is practically deafening.

They all stare at him, as if totally flummoxed. 

“You can’t be serious.” Chul-Moo gasps. But there is a spark of interest in the man’s eye that Jihoon doesn't miss. “You want to ask _Scrooge_ himself?”

“He’s not a Scrooge!” Jihoon corrects, snappish. Seeing the look of surprise on all their faces, he continues, a little more softly, “I know it might not _seem_ like that sometimes, but Mr Choi is actually one of the sweetest men I know. When he’s grumpy—he’s really grumpy, I know, but there is also a kind side to him too. He just keeps it really well hidden.”

Chul-Moo gives him this measuring look, that very same look everyone gives him when he tries to dispel Seungcheol’s character flaws.

“How would you know. How would you even have access to him?”

Jihoon straightens up in his seat and smiles proudly, “I’m his PA.”

* * *

Seungcheol pushes through the door of his penthouse, shaking slush off his shoes and grumbling murderously under his breath.

It’s taken him almost two damn hours to drive home this evening, what with the unexpected snow fall grinding traffic to a halt and the unsurprising difficulty of trying to steer a sports car through it. Then to top it off he’d been accosted by a group of carolers—the _same_ group of carollers that have been camped outside his apartment building for the past two weeks, ringing bells and collecting money for orphans or puppies or something.

Seungcheol hates carols; they remind him too much of being in boarding school, and these particular carollers have been singing ‘let it snow’ endlessly, like it’s the only song they can all agree on. Possibly because it’s one of the few without any religious connotations and ‘ _everyone’_ can enjoy.

Seungcheol had felt like waving a stick at them and shouting, _How much more can it possibly snow? You’ve let it snow several thousand times already!_ But he didn’t have a stick handy, so he couldn’t do that.

Instead he had to empty the contents of his wallet just to get them out of his fucking way, and _seriously_ , it’s shit like this that makes him hate the festive season. Makes him want to throw it all in and head to a beach somewhere until everyone gets it out of their system. Somewhere without Christmas trees and angels and all the cloying sentimentalism of the season.

The sunset is already casting pink shadows across the long hallway as he kicks off his shoes, and he determines that it’s too late to cook. Too late to re-heat anything either. Too late to do anything other than order in and slouch in front of whatever shit’s on the TV.

Another maudlin Dickens Christmas adaptation probably.

Seungcheol hates Dickens, almost as much as he hates Carollers.

Padding into the living room, he tugs off his leather gloves and stuffs them into his coat pocket, surprised to find his fingers brushing against something soft and silky to the touch. Yanking on it, his eyes saucer then curve gleefully when out of his pocket emerges the mother of all Christmas miracles: Jihoon’s red lacy thong.

“Oh ho-ho-ho, what do we have here.” He crows, twirling the thong around his finger before catching it and fist pumping the air. Once. Twice. And okay, that’s probably not the most appropriate reaction to finding your PA’s thong in your coat pocket, and neither is wearing it on your head and dancing around the room, or falling to your knees and yelling “YES! THANK YOU JESUS!” but there’s nobody around to judge him, okay.

And he’d honestly forgotten all about it, forgotten he’d even had the thing what with the onslaught of work the new Notre Dam deal entailed. And Jihoon hasn’t asked for it back once since they returned, so he must have forgotten about it too. _Unless_ ….

Unless he _wants_ Seungcheol to have it?

Perhaps the thong symbolises a gesture of gratitude of sorts—or a token. In much the same was a fair maiden would bestow a handkerchief upon her hero, Jihoon has bestowed his lacy red thong upon Seungcheol, and yes, that’s possibly the craziest excuse Seungcheol could come up with, but he doesn’t care.

He’s keeping it.

It's a Christmas miracle. 

Dropping down on the couch, Seungcheol rolls the cool, silky material between his fingers.

He barely got a cursory glance at the thong in Paris, Jihoon had been so eager to whisk it out of sight, but now—stretching the material taut between his hands—he can almost imagine what Jihoon would look like wearing it. It would sit just below his slim waist, that little string of red lace like a frame clinging to the top curves of each of Jihoon’s ass cheeks, joining up in the middle to form the slightest of V-shapes before disappearing into the cleft of….

Seungcheol groans at the mental image, suddenly breathless and dazed. 

Biting his lip, he fumbles for his zipper one handed and works it down in record time. He’s already half hard, and when he gives his dick a friendly, experimental squeeze, feels himself getting harder.

Then he pauses there, with his cock in one hand and the thong still held loosely in the other, thinking— _Don’t do it. Do not do it._

It’s been a while since he’s jerked off, even longer since he’s been _this_ desperate to jerk off, and he knows he really shouldn’t. He should just slip the thong back into his pocket and return it to its rightful owner at his earliest convenience.

But there’s something undeniably delicious about the idea brewing in his head too, about pushing up into his fist through a layer of slippery red silk and painting it white.

He shouldn’t—but he’s gonna. 


	2. Veto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seungcheol is emotionally compromised, but we already knew that.

“Good morning Mr Choi. Nice weather we’re having eh?” Chimes the security guard the second Seungcheol steps through the double doors.

Seungcheol accepts this with a mild tilt of his head, though he has the rather uncharitable thought of docking the man’s pay because _nobody_ should be that fucking ecstatic this early in the morning.

A _Monday_ morning. 

Seungcheol likes Monday’s about as much as the next guy, which is to say—not at all. The fact that he’s the CEO and the majority shareholder of Choi Corp doesn’t make a Monday any more appealing. If anything, the burden of responsibility his title carries and the example he must set—to be there on time _and_ with a smile on his face—just makes him despise Monday’s all the more. Especially _this_ Monday, which has arrived after a weekend of too much Scotch, too little sex, and the realization that he’s a _very bad man_.

Very bad.

His behaviour over the weekend was despicable. Reprehensible. Appalling. Insert other terrible adjectives.

He’s actually ashamed of himself, which is a very new and interesting sensation, but completely warranted because not only did he jerk off all over Jihoon’s thong once—he went back for seconds. _Seconds_. Like he wasn’t enough of a pervert by keeping the damn thing, he just had to go and wreck it to hell too.

And oh _boy_ did he wreck it—wrecked that thong to _shreds_. Wrecked it so bad it looked like something out of a damn crime scene when he was finished, but instead of gore and copious amount of blood, there was just his cum— _everywhere_.

The horror of his actions had sunk in then, and so guilt riddled and shameful he half expected the police to kick the door in and cart him away. And maybe he’s overstating things a little, but there’s got to be a special place in hell for guy’s who steal their PA’s thong and masturbate with it. A special _table_ in hell for guys who would do it all again if given half the chance; next to Satan and Mussolini, Seungcheol’s got a place-card waiting.

All because of that damn _thong_.

Oh, the _shame_.

He doesn’t know how he can ever look Jihoon in the eye again without blushing. He can’t even look _himself_ in the mirror without shaking his head in disappointment, so how the hell’s he going to sit through a two-hour board meeting with his pretty PA nearby, _smiling_ at him.

He’ll have to find a way to put this all behind him and move on with his life; accept that he’s a giant pervert and hope to God Jihoon never finds out.

And he can _never_ find out. Ever.

Just the thought of Jihoon’s _‘Oh my god, how could you do that to thongy!’_ has Seungcheol hesitating to punch the button for his floor. Then he remembers it’s Monday, he’s an hour early; Jihoon doesn’t even arrive till 8.30am, so he has time to settle in and compose himself enough to face whatever lies ahead.

Except, no sooner has he entered his office and turned on his laptop, that Jisoo comes striding into the room, a sheaf of documents in hand. He slams them down on the table wordlessly, with all the stone-faced mien that he’s (in)famous for.

Startled but recovering quickly, Seungcheol spares the documents a brief glance and knows immediately he’s in for the mother of all lectures. 

“Jisoo, I just got in. Can this wait till later?” Seungcheol says in as polite a tone as he can manage.

Jisoo’s eyes flash. “No, actually, it can’t. Unless you’d like to explain to the rest of the board why you’ve decided to give your PA a raise without following correct procedure.” he says, flatly, that disdainful tone he does so well. 

Seungcheol cocks an eyebrow, “Excuse me? I think you’ll find I submitted all the necessary paperwork.”

“Yes, you did. But _without my signature_.” Jisoo says, his syllables neat and precise as he points at the empty dotted line on the first page.

Seungcheol sighs heavily and presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, wondering whether 7.45am is too early to start drinking.

He pulls a post-it note from its pad and writes a reminder to buy a bottle of Scotch for his desk drawer. A case. Perhaps two. Or maybe he needs to research the investment potential of acquiring a small distillery somewhere. Yeah, that’s a much better idea. Mondays are unlikely to disappear from the calendar anytime in the foreseeable future, and from the look on Jisoo’s face—neither is Jisoo.

“And _why_ is that a problem exactly?” Seungcheol asks, still cruising polite as he eases himself out of his chair.

“Because you _undermined_ my authority Seungcheol.” Jisoo says, briefly returning to his normal tone of voice, but drawling out the syllables to maximum effect.

“ _Your_ authority?” Seungcheol echoes, eyeballing him.

There is an edge of disbelieving hysteria behind his ribs, threatening to claw loose. He tamps it down and shakes his head, though he allows an edge of steel to creep into his own voice as he advances round the table so he’s only a pace away from Jisoo.

“I’m the CEO. _Me_. If I want to give my PA a raise, I’m going to damn well do it, and I am _not_ going to ask for permission.”

They both startle as the door swings open, but it’s just Jeonghan, arriving for their usual Monday morning one-on-one.

He takes one look at Jisoo then throws Seungcheol a conspiratorial little smile that he doesn't even bother wiping off when Jisoo looks at him more directly.

“Don’t mind me fellas,” He grins, gesturing for them to continue as he settles into one of the armchairs next to the desk.

Jisoo rolls his eyes at him then turns back to scowl at Seungcheol.

“As I was saying, salary reviews should be passed to the payroll department for approval, and I think you’ll find that falls under my jurisdiction. The company policy clearly states—”

“ _Fuck_ the company policy.” Seungcheol snaps, before realizing that sounded neither calm nor professional.

Jisoo opens his mouth to reply, but Seungcheol just raises a hand and fixes him with a look that tells him he knows exactly what he’s going to say, so he needn't bother.

“I think you’re forgetting that this is my company Jisoo. Jihoon is my PA; I know how much work he does and how hard he works, and if I think he deserves a raise I have every right to give him one.” he says, watching Jisoo’s face fold into something tense and conflicted.

“He’s only been here five months—”

“And he’s already accomplished so much!” Seungcheol interjects, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s the reason we secured the Notre Dam deal, and just so you know, I plan on crediting him in front of the board today. It’s a huge deal and his efforts deserve recognition; the board should know who we have to thank.”

“Tell them whatever the hell you want Seungcheol.” Jisoo counters, crossing his arms. There's defiance in the tilt of his chin as he peers up into Seungcheol's face. “It doesn’t change the fact that when it comes to Jihoon, you’re emotionally compromised. He’s become a liability to the company and can no longer function as your PA.”

Seungcheol finds himself gritting his teeth at how _easily_ Jisoo says that, like Jihoon is just another piece of office equipment that can be replaced with a newer, better model. The very idea has Seungcheol’s blood boiling livid hot, and he’s going to be helpless to do anything but punch Jisoo right in the mouth unless he can stop this conversation, right now.

Rather than act on said impulse, he reaches for the pen in his breast pocket and holds it aloft.

“See this pen Jisoo, see where it says _Choi Seungcheol, CEO_?”

Jisoo leans in to study it, squinting. “There’s no writing on that pen.”

Seungcheol mouth pulls up at one corner though he knows he’s not smiling, “That’s right—and you know why? Because the original pen is still embedded in the skull of the _last_ know-it-all who tried to tell me how to run my fucking company.”

Jisoo flinches back instinctively, taking in what Seungcheol has no doubt are his wild eyes, and the way he’s grinding his teeth—torn between frustration, fury and murderous…..

Okay, so—maybe he’s a _little_ emotionally compromised.

Promising bodily harm on someone threatening to take his Peanut away is _probably_ not helping his case any. But goddammit—he just won’t stand for it. And he certainly won’t let anyone label Jihoon as a liability.

Despite the complicated mess of his private feelings for him, Jihoon is an asset to the company.

A precious, lovely, adorable little asset—and Seungcheol is ready to gut anyone who tries to take him away.

“O-okay, I feel the need to intervene here.” Jeonghan chuckles, stepping smoothly between them and ushering Jisoo back a step. “Now while I appreciate your concerns Jisoo, I _do_ think it’s unfair to label poor little Jihoonie as a liability. He’s a hard little worker and Seungcheol’s just giving him the recognition he deserves. I mean—do you even _have_ any concrete proof to support the suggestion Seungcheol’s emotionally compromised?”

Jisoo scoffs, incredulous, “I have _plenty_ of proof—as do you. Don’t pretend like you haven’t seen they way they interact with each other—all that head patting and nose booping and ridiculous pet names. Oh, and let’s not forget the dinner invitation Seungcheol accepted that is so out of character. God only _knows_ what happened in Paris.”

It’s Jisoo’s standard delivery, cool and dismissive, but his eyes are glittering and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Seungcheol laughs, just sharply enough that it’ll make him madder.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean? Nothing happened in Paris—it was a _business_ trip.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Jisoo says, practically biting off the syllables.

Seungcheol leans back against the front of his desk with a heavy sigh as Jeonghan steps forward again, shaking his head indulgently.

“Jisoo, _c’mon_ —lets be reasonable here. It’s natural for two people sharing an office to bond a little. When you spend so much time with one person, you’re bound to get closer—to form a more _personal_ connection. Even someone as prickly and unlikable as Seungcheol isn’t immune to it.”

Seungcheol clears his throat loudly in affront, but Jeonghan just flashes a brief grin at him over his shoulder—that cheeky _‘work with me here’_ one that suggests he’s building up to something—before schooling his face into impassivity as he turns to face Jisoo.

Jisoo gives him a long, cool stare, “I disagree. Personal connections have no place in the office. There should be no blurring of the lines between your work life and your personal life.”

Jeonghan tips his head, smiling in way that he probably thinks conveys the utmost innocence. “Well, if you _really_ believe that, how come you’ve used the company credit card to subscribe to all those foot fetish magazines?”

Seungcheol does a double-take. 

“Woah, woah—hold up. _Foot fetish_?” He echoes, eyes widening as he notices Jisoo’s cheeks are now flushed a deep crimson.

“Yes, that’s right.” Jeonghan nods, pretending not to see the look of flat-mouthed displeasure Jisoo’s aiming at him, “Mr Hong here has _numerous_ subscriptions sent straight to his office. I’ve seen them.”

“Oh my god—” Jisoo groans, rubbing his temples in a way that suggests this is a very old argument he’s sick of rehashing. “For the last time Mr Yoon, I did _not_ subscribe to those magazines.”

Jeonghan quirks and eyebrow and leans forward suspiciously. “Then why were they in your office, with your name on them?”

“I don’t know! I hate feet!” Jisoo huffs, half-distraught, turning his gaze heavenward.

Seungcheol catches his lip between his teeth and tries not to smile. God, Jeonghan is a really bad influence on him. Suddenly his crimes against Jihoon’s thong seem perfectly reasonable in comparison. Reasonable enough that he can afford to be a little judgmental in the face of this new information.

“Really Jisoo? You like _feet_ —like in a _sexy_ way? That’s pretty gross man.”

“ _Seungcheol_ —” Jeonghan chides softly, smacking his shoulder, “You shouldn’t pass judgment on someone without getting the full picture. Jisoo is a highly competent and well-respected individual in this company, and we should judge him on his merits, regardless of whatever weird foot fetish he may have.”

Jisoo looks distinctly exasperated now.

“I DON’T HAVE A FOOT FETISH!” He announces in his outside voice just as the office door swings open.

They all turn stunned eyes towards the doorway and there’s Jihoon, looking extra soft and cute with his chin buried deep in the collar of his little pea-coat and a bobble hat pulled down over his eyebrows. He divides a curious look between the three of them, before murmuring, “Uhm, I could I come back later?”

Seungcheol smiles and he lets Jihoon see that the smile reaches all the way to his eyes, “No, it’s okay Peanut. We’re finished here.”

Jisoo whips his head to the side to give him a wintery look. “We are _far_ from finished.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. He really doesn't have time for this. His work day hasn’t even technically started yet, he has a conference call in twenty minutes, and a folder full of contracts that need his approval and Jisoo seems determined to flog this dead horse till the cows come home.

“Then by all means, let’s keep talking about your foot fetish.” He snarks.

Jeonghan steps forward then, right into Jisoo’s breathing space. “I have been told that I have reasonably nice feet. Would you like to see them?” He says with a scandalous twinkle that causes Jisoo's face to flush a deep red.

“That’s not even funny.”

Jeonghan’s answering smile is wicked, “Who said I was joking?”

A look not unlike indigestion passes over Jisoo’s face at the words and Seungcheol has to bite his knuckle to stifle his laughter.

“Hey! You guys shouldn’t kink shame him. That’s not nice.” Jihoon pouts, proving once again he’s just a sweet innocent soul ready to defend anyone. Even foot fetishizing HR managers that are trying to get him fired.

Jisoo sputters something incoherent then just throws his hands up in the air, “Oh forget it! I give up!”

Seungcheol smiles at him as he storms out of the room and wiggles his fingers at him. If the middle finger stays extended for a slightly longer than necessary time, it really isn't his fault.

* * *

Jihoon spends the first Saturday of every month arranging his wardrobe, ironing and folding all his shirts, hanging his pants, and rotating his sweater vests so he never wears the same one twice in one week.

It’s a good system, and not one he’s tempted to change, until he goes Christmas shopping with Seokmin and sees something in a shop window that _tilts_ his world view.

A waist coat.

It’s slimline and grey, understated enough to wear to work, but with small pearlescent buttons shiny enough to make Jihoon happy. And it’s possible that Jihoon spends too long staring at it with his nose pressed against the glass because Seokmin finally snaps and shoves him through the door with a _‘Will you try it on already!’_

Jihoon does try it on, and immediately falls in love.

He thinks it makes him look smart, stylish, extra sophisticated and professional in a way sweater vests never could. Even if it’s a little trim around the waist and, _wow_ —has his ass always looked this big?

Oh well—who’s looking at his ass anyway?

Nobody probably.

He heads into work on Monday with an extra spring in his step, though he doubts anyone will notice his transformation. Except, when he enters the boardroom with a stack of freshly printed handouts for the morning meeting, everyone starts _clapping_.

“There he is—man of the hour.” Jeonghan announces, rising from his chair. “Isn’t he amazing.”

Jihoon remains rooted on the spot, stunned. Then the others follow suit, standing one by one until the whole boardroom is on their feet, smiling and clapping for him and he blushes so hard he's kind of surprised he doesn't pass out.

He can’t believe it. He can’t believe they all love his waist coat _this much_.

Oh god—he’s so happy he bought it.

“Great job Jihoon.” Wonwoo cheers enthusiastically, giving him a thumbs up.

Jihoon’s too choked up to reply coherently, but he manages a squeaky, “Thank you,” as another board member steps forward to pat him on the back.

It’s just as well he doesn’t say anything else, because when Seungcheol finally speaks up, Jihoon soon realises they’re not actually congratulating him on his awesome new waist coat at all.

“I was just telling everyone about your charming manoeuvre on the French architects.” Seungcheol smiles warmly, “That _you’re_ the reason Choi Corp landed the deal.”

Jihoon shakes his head frantically, his voice coming out a nervous squawk, “Oh—that! But I—I didn’t _do_ anything really. Or at least, I didn’t think I did. I mean… I probably just embarrassed myself trying to talk to them.”

“Oh—don’t be so modest Jihoonie.” Another board member cajoles, ruffling his hair. “We know better than most Mr Choi doesn’t hand out complements to just _anyone_. You must have done something quite exceptional to win his praise.”

“ _Indeed_.” Jisoo pipes up, looking unimpressed.

It’s only now that Jihoon notices that Jisoo’s still seated. That he hasn’t taken part in the standing ovation or any of the clapping, or the praise.

 _What a jerk. And to think I was in support of his weird foot kink_ —Jihoon thinks sourly, then starts screaming when the rest of the board members gather around and starts tossing him up in the air in some weird corporate version of the birthday bumps.

* * *

The morning meeting winds down now with Seungcheol’s usual morale building spiel of _‘you want your fucking bonus, this is how you earn it’_ and _‘I don’t care if you have to miss your kids’ piano recital or if you’re dying of kidney failure, I want your report in my inbox by Friday’_ , and Jihoon can finally stops taking notes and start tidying up as the department managers begin filtering out.

Of course, it’s not really in Jihoon’s job description to tidy the conference room, but the janitor has always been very kind to him, and he’s really, really old and Jihoon likes to help out when he can. Besides, the mess never amounts to much—just a few stray pens and spare briefings to collect, and a few dozen cooling coffee cups to stack.

Reaching for a discarded stack of papers, he gasps, startled, as he feels hands rest on his shoulders.

“You’re not going to pass out, are you?” Seungcheol asks, his voice so soft and warm sounding in Jihoon's ear that he giggles a little.

He turns to face him and stops, aware in that moment that Seungcheol is standing right behind him. Close. Too close. A _different_ kind of close – and a sudden shiver of anticipation travels up his spine that he doesn't want to think about. So he doesn't, he just shuffles the papers into a neat stack before setting them down onto the tabletop.

“N-no. I’m okay.”

Seungcheol turns him gently, looking at him with genuine concern. “Are you sure? You’re looking …pretty red in the face right now. I knew I should have put my foot down when they started throwing you up in the air, maybe you should sit down.”

Jihoon waves his hand dismissively, “I’m just a little overwhelmed is all. I didn’t expect you to tell people I had anything to do with the deal. I honestly don’t feel like I _did_ anything.”

“Well you did.” Seungcheol counters, features turning serious. “You were instrumental in securing that deal and screw anyone who says otherwise. In fact—I’ve already put you forward for a raise.”

It’s probably comes across ungrateful that Jihoon’s first reaction to that is, “Oh no, not a raise!” like Seungcheol has threatened to fire him and not, in fact, offered to give him more money. But Seungcheol just laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yes, a _raise_. It’s terribly cruel, I know, coming up to Christmas and all. Do try and forgive me.” He affects a pout.

Jihoon swats his shoulder playfully with the back of a folder and hurries to collect the rest of the papers. They’ve got a packed schedule this morning, with back-to-back meetings till noon and a video conference call with their new Paris office after lunch, so there’s really no time to doddle. Except Seungcheol seems to be in no such rush.

He perches on the edge of the conference table as Jihoon circles the room, watching him attentively as he collects all the briefings and circles back round again. The second he’s in grabbing range, Seungcheol quickly reaches an arm out to reel him in. 

“I see you’re adopting a new trend. Are waist-coats the new sweater vests?”

Jihoon can't help the curve of his mouth, can't help from smoothing his hands down over his own torso. Honestly, he’d almost forgotten he was wearing his new waist coat, and for Seungcheol to notice his little wardrobe change has him preening to the fullest. 

“Oh, I just thought I should try something new. Paris is the Fashion capital of the world, and I don’t remember seeing any people wearing sweater vests—but there were quite a few waist coats, and I thought— _hey_ , maybe I could pull off that look.” He looks down a little, shamelessly checking himself out. “What do you think?” 

“It’s uhm….. _distracting_.” Seungcheol says, his voice suddenly dropping a whole octave below its usual baritone.

Jihoon’s body goes hot all over on hearing it. He has to lick his lips, he’s suddenly nervous.

“Is—is that a _good_ thing?” 

Seungcheol’s eyes soften around the edges and his lips twitch. The early warning signs of a smile.

“Of course. It’s very flattering. Really accentuates your……. _eyes_.” He trails off, staring nowhere in the vicinity of Jihoon’s eyes at all. And, wow, the _way_ he is staring—gaze heavy and appreciative—Jihoon has to wonder if it’s meant to be deliberately enticing, or if it’s only a happy side-effect of Seungcheol’s good looks.

For an instant Jihoon’s world tilts sharply, leaving him disoriented and lightheaded. There’s a giddy sensation in his chest. A kindling of dangerous hope, of ideas he can’t afford to indulge. Then he has to take a step back, to put some distance between them because that’s just _crazy_.

Of course, Seungcheol’s not checking him out. Of course.

He’s just _looking_ , and Jihoon’s wild imagination is just misreading things. That’s all. Because there’s no way Seungcheol would ever look at him like—like _that_.

So this heavy, lingering gaze can only mean one thing….

Seungcheol is jealous of his awesome waist coat.

Yeah, that’s it. Seungcheol just really, _really_ likes his new waist coat.

There’s no reason for Jihoon to get all hot and bothered about it.

 _Jeeze, get a grip_ —he thinks, turning his internal embarrassment into an awkward hacking cough.

“Uhm, Seungcheol? Could I ask you a something?”

Seungcheol’s head flies up so fast Jihoon can almost hear his neck crack. “Uh, sure—shoot.” He says, shaking his head as though to clear it.

“So, uhm—I’ve recently joined the CCCC.”

“The cute cuddly cat collaboration?” Seungcheol says with a wry grin.

“Yes. What? _No_ —The Choi Corp Celebratory Committee.”

Seungcheol shoots him a curious look, head tilting at an angle, “Did you just make that up Peanut?”

“No, no—they’re _real_. It’s a real thing.” Jihoon says urgently. He reaches for the piece of paper in his pocket, unfolds it to show Seungcheol the very official looking letter-headed proposal Chan-Sung had drawn up. “See? It’s the committee responsible for organising events for the staff during special occasions, like Christmas and Halloween.”

Seungcheol leans his hip against the table and crosses his arms, smiling indulgently, “Okay. And what about them?”

The edges of the paper crumple under Jihoon’s suddenly anxious grip.

Even though Seungcheol’s listening, and smiling so nicely at him, Jihoon has no idea if he’ll go along with this. He makes a point of not asking for things, especially anything money related, because his mother always taught him to be content with what he has. But this isn’t just for him—this is for _everyone_. And while he did make assurances to the CCCC that his boss was more amendable than previously thought, Jihoon has no idea how he’ll react to such a request.

Seungcheol is incredibly easy to read in some ways and yet infuriatingly difficult in others. He's stubborn, to say the least, and sometimes that stubbornness swings in Jihoon's way. Sometimes it doesn't. But Jihoon has to give it a shot, so he tries to mirror Seungcheol relaxed posture, his expression, and feels a little calmer from the effort.

“And, well—they’re planning a Christmas party this year, except they don’t have much in the way of a budget. And all proposals for increasing said budget have been rejected. So I said—that maybe I could…if you don’t mind. I could ask about..I know it’s really below you, but maybe you could…but I understand if you can’t…I just thought I could ask you to…. _increase_ it?” He finally finishes, squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation.

“Sure.”

Jihoon’s eyes fly open. “What?”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow and looks at him expectantly; Jihoon wishes he could have that much poise just once in his life.

“I said _sure_. You want your budget increased, fine. Let’s increase it.”

Jihoon can only blink as Seungcheol plucks the paper out of his hand, smoothing out the creases as he sets it flat on the desk in front of him.

“How much do you need?” He asks, reaching for a pen.

“I—I don’t know.” Jihoon answers honestly.

Suddenly he feels completely unprepared—unprepared because he’d expected a little more resistance to his proposal. He’d expected a little grumbling on Seungcheol’s part, and a lot more persuasive arguing on his. He’d even designed a power-point, and made flashcards in preparation to convince Seungcheol of all the reasons having an awesome Christmas party for the staff was a great idea.

It all seems like a colossal waste of time now that Seungcheol’s staring at him expectantly, twiddling his pen and waiting to sign off on whatever figure Jihoon plucks off the top of his head.

It seems too easy.

Then again—maybe he just caught Seungcheol on a good day?

“Okay, let’s look at it like this: how many people are you expecting to _attend_?” Seungcheol asks after a moment of silence.

Jihoon shrugs, but what should be casual feels stiff and terrifying. “Everyone, I guess. We were hoping everyone would come if we threw a really _nice_ party.”

Seungcheol makes an impatient face at him, tapping his pen against the table, “That’s…what, 400 office-based colleagues? Shall we say 5000 dollars? That should be enough, right?”

“More than enough.” Jihoon says under his breath, smiling.

Seungcheol presses the pen against the paper, then pauses, “Wait, what was your budget sitting on?”

“Uhm, 350 dollars.”

Seungcheol gives him a speculative look from under his brow, “You were going to throw a party for 400 people on 350 dollars?”

“We were going to _try_.” Jihoon offers sheepishly. He clasps his hands behind his back and stares at his shoes, “Apparently Mr Hong reduced the budget a few years back and they never managed to convince him to change his mind.”

Seungcheol chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course, he did. Tell you what,” His pen scratches across the paper, signing off a figure Jihoon can’t quite see from this angle before handing the paper over with a flourish. “—let’s bump it up a little higher. Then you can throw the staff a _real_ nice party.”

Jihoon turns the paper, looks at the new figure and makes big, surprised eyes. Then he has to sit down, because it’s probably best to get off his feet before he passes out.

* * *

Chan-sung stares at the page in his hand, as if it holds the secrets of the universe. 

“H-how— _how_ did you do this?”

Jihoon offers him a sheepish smile, toying with the hem of his shirt. “I just _asked_ him.”

Chan-sung stares at him with disbelief, “You just _asked_ him for a budget increase and he said _‘Yeah sure, here’s 10,000 dollars, have fun?”_

“Uhm, yeah actually—that’s exactly what he said.”

Chan-sung blinks at him, then his expression fills with admiration. “Unbelievable. Well done Jihoon—this is awesome.”

“Let me see that—” Chul-Moo huffs, stepping around the table and ripping the page out of his hand. He scans it, forehead creasing, then his eyes slowly travel up to meet Jihoon’s. “Are you sleeping with him?”

It’s the last question Jihoon expects to hear, and he doesn't know how to begin answering it. He opens his mouth and closes it again, feeling entirely too much like a fish out of water. He’s momentarily saved from having to say anything at all when Choon-Hee smacks Chul-Moo on the arm.

“That is a _very_ inappropriate thing to ask.” She chides—then shoots Jihoon a probing look, “Are you though?”

Jihoon's face turns instantly hot, and he stammers out a denial, sputtering indignantly, “N-no. Of course not.” 

Choon-Hee’s gaze is entirely too calculating. “We wouldn’t judge you if you said yes, you know. He is _exceedingly_ handsome.”

Jihoon ducks his head, mumbling, “No. He’s—he’s just my boss.”

“Guys—can we start planning this party please?” Chan-sung interrupts, waving his new budget in the air. “Unless I’m mistaken, this is the CCCC and not the Mr Choi is so sexy fanfiction club. They meet on the 12th floor every _Tuesday_ Lunchtime, if that’s what you’re interested in.”

“Oh god no—” Choon-Hee shudders as she retakes her seat, “I used to be a member. Never again. Those guys are hardcore.”

* * *

There’s a plate of mince pies on Seungcheol’s desk when he arrives to work on Monday morning.

Mini mince pies.

The mini-est mince pies Seungcheol’s ever seen.

So mini he can fit three in his mouth in one go. So naturally he eats nine before he even reaches for the still hot cup of coffee to wash them down.

Reaching for another, his tenth mini mince pie in as many minutes, he freezes when he notices Jihoon has materialised next to his desk out of nowhere, like a mini ninja. He’s wearing a Santa hat—not a mini one oddly enough—but he’s beaming up at Seungcheol like he’s just done something remarkable, like he’s done something other than scoff nine mini mince pies without so much as a ‘ _Hello, how was your weekend?’_.

“Those mince pies were for me, right?” Seungcheol says, fingers inching towards the plate.

“Of course.” Jihoon giggles, popping open a Tupperware box to add a few more mini mince pies to the plate. The last one he fishes out goes right into Seungcheol’s mouth, “The CCCC really appreciate the bump you gave for our budget and asked me to pass on their gratitude—so I baked you these mince pies. They’re _mini_ —so you can pop them straight into your mouth without worrying about crumbs.”

“Der good.” Seungcheol mumbles around a mouthful.

He takes another gulp of coffee as he shrugs off his coat, then turns to find Jihoon is still grinning up at him, cheeks practically _glowing_. Seungcheol has never known anyone else who radiates pure energy the way Jihoon does. It’s a little like being close to a nuclear reactor.

A mini nuclear reactor.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Seungcheol asks, skirting the borders of suspicion.

Jihoon blink-blinks at him, guiltless, “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to set out a bowl of milk or something,” Seungcheol drawls, unwinding his scarf slowly.

Jihoon pulls a confused face. He still doesn’t get how much of a kitten he is when he does this, hovering in Seungcheol’s space, waiting for attention. He shakes the expression off a moment later though, and says, “I wanted to ask you something.”

 _Ah, here it comes_ —Seungcheol thinks.

He throws his scarf over the back of his chair as he takes his seat, eyes still locked and slowly narrowing on Jihoon and what has to be world's _ugliest_ Christmas sweater.

And no, he's not exaggerating in the least. The somewhat misshapen reindeer with its red puffball of a nose is gaudier and more horrible than even yesterday’s fluorescent snowman. Seungcheol honestly has no idea where his Peanut finds such treasure troves of festive hideousness, and why by wearing them he looks even _cuter_ than ever.

It shouldn’t be possible.

“Alright, what do you want Peanut?”

“It’s about the Christmas party.” Jihoon starts, jiggling impatiently on the balls of his feet. “You see, we’re planning to have a raffle, and give out prizes for the winners. Just, you know, to spread some joy and Christmas cheer.”

“And you want more money.” Seungcheol deduces flatly.

Jihoon head shake is immediate and emphatic, “No—no, we have _plenty_ of money to cover it. More money than we know what to do with, if I’m being honest. It’s just that, we _kind_ of need someone to dress up as Santa and give out the gifts. And I thought, maybe _you_ —”

Seungcheol’s laughing before Jihoon even finishes, shaking his head and waving his hands, signalling ‘NO’ even through his hilarity.

“Stop, stop right there Jihoon.” He says, once he finally manages to compose himself enough to speak, “I’m not doing it. No way. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my good deed for the festive season; you’re having your little party and everyone is going to eat and drink on my dime—so there’s absolutely no way I am dressing like Saint Nick and handing out gifts. No fucking way.”

Jihoon stares at him, honestly puzzled.

“But—I wasn’t suggesting _you_ do it. I was just asking if _you_ wouldn’t mind me inviting _Mingyu_. He’s not technically employed by the company, so he usually wouldn’t come—but I’d like to invite him anyway, and maybe _he_ could dress like Santa and hand out the gifts.”

Seungcheol doesn’t even _have_ to fake his offended look. He’s so genuinely offended. 

“You’d pick Mingyu to be Santa—over _me_?”

“I didn’t think you’d _want_ to dress like Santa.” Jihoon says, just blinking for a moment, and then he breaks into a huge smile. “But if _you_ want to do it, that’s even better!”

Seungcheol opens his mouth to say _‘Hell yeah!’_ , just as something dawns on him. Jihoon—his crafty little peanut—is trying to use some kind of weird reverse _psychology_ on him. He’s cleverly playing on Seungcheol’s well known epic rivalry with Mingyu the window cleaner, to trick Seungcheol to dress like freaking Santa.

It’s a very devious tactic. Devious through and through.

A lesser man might have fallen for it—but Seungcheol refuses to take the bait

“Oh, I see what you’re doing, you sneaky, _sneaky_ little Peanut.”

“Huh?” Jihoon says, staring at him with those big blink-blink eyes that are the epitome of innocence.

 _Devious_ innocence.

“Nice try, but I’m not falling for it Jihoon.” Seungcheol relaxes back against his seat, smiling. “You can invite Mingyu to be your Santa. In fact—he can be the guest of _honour_ at the party. And if he doesn’t want to come, tell him I’ll pay him to show up. He can have a week’s salary on me. How about that?”

“Oh my god, that’s so amazing!” Jihoon bounces excitedly on the balls of his feet, voice a high squeak of excitement. “Thank you so much, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol watches him skip away back to his desk, feeling strangely outmanoeuvred anyway.

 _Dammit_.

* * *

“You do realise this is a party for adults, right?” Chul-Moo says, studying Jihoon’s cookie with an unnecessary level of disdain. He drops it back on the napkin without so much as tasting it. “People are coming to drink and mingle—they don’t care if the food looks _Christmassy_.”

Jihoon deflates a little—though he does his best not to let it show.

“I guess I did get carried away decorating them. It’s just a practice run though—I can decorate them differently, or I can make _other_ treats. I have a whole family recipe book filled with Christmassy snacks. I could it bring it in, and you could pick what you think will suit—”

“Veto.” Chul-Moo raises a hand, talking over him like he’s done for the past three meetings, “We’re trying to throw a corporate Christmas party here—something with a little more sophistication. If you wanted to share your ghastly Christmas baking attempts, maybe you should have joined a cookery class or something.”

Jihoon clutches his Tupperware box against his chest a little tighter, a little hurt.

He’d spent hours making his Christmas Cookies, and took extra special care decorating them to ensure they were in-keeping with the décor theme. They’d passed the taste test—had even got a thumbs up from Seokmin, and Seungcheol has scoffed a whole plate of them with his morning coffee—but Chul-Moo seems to have a particular discerning taste.

A _discriminatory_ taste, against anything Jihoon offers up.

“Seeing as Jihoon is the reason we secured a massive budget increase in the first place, I think he should get a say in how the money is spent.” Choon-Hee pipes up then. She meets Chul-Moo’s glare head on and flips her hair back over her shoulder, as if daring him to disapprove.

“Yeah—besides these cookies are pretty tasty, as well as cute.” Chan-mi volunteers, chowing down on one and ignoring Chul-Moo's icy look.

Jihoon keeps his voice low, but can't quite smooth the rough gravel of feeling. “Thanks guys. I’m glad you like them.”

“Well I still think we should go with a _professional_ caterer. We can afford to hire one now.” Chul-Moo returns smoothly.

“My friend Seokmin is a professional Chef!” Jihoon pipes in as the thought occurs to him. “He knows lots of people in the business, and I’m sure he knows lots of caterers too. I could ask him.”

Chul-Moo sighs, looking away in irritation. “I already have someone lined up. He’ll keep things cheap and cheerful, without making it look like we’re throwing a kids party. No offence Jihoon.” He says, not even _trying_ to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Jihoon affects a smile, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “That’s okay. It was just an idea.”

Chan-sung clears his throat awkwardly as he flips through his notes. “Okay, so, moving on. Let’s talk about _numbers_. How do we bring people in?”

Jihoon remains silent for the rest of the meeting because Chul-Moo is apparently uninterested in what he has to say. It’s probably for the best, as Jihoon suspects he’s likely to say the wrong thing anyway.

* * *

Now that they’ve secured a budget, and a caterer, and are making reasonable headway in planning a half-way decent party, Jihoon supposes it’s safe to start _telling_ people about it. Because it won’t be much of a party if nobody actually shows up. So he spends his Thursday lunch hour replacing all the shitty Christmas party posters with his new, much nicer posters and handing out flyers in the canteen.

Initial interest in the party however, is….disappointingly low.

Sure, people take his flyers and smile at him when he tells them about the party, but he suspects that’s just because he’s a small man in a sweater vest with soulful kitten eyes. There’s very little actual commitment from anyone to show up—except for a handful of promises from the good friends he’s made in the office—nobody else wants to RSVP.

Which sucks, a lot.

But he’s _not_ going to give up that easily. 

“Well, well, well—to what do I owe the pleasure?” Junhui drawls, looking up from his computer when Jihoon knocks.

Jihoon steps into the office, noting with some amusement that the Eiffel tower shaped stapler he bought Junhui has taken bride of place on his desk.

“Hello Junhui. I just popped in to check if you’d noticed the flyers I’ve been posting around the building. You know, for the party?”

One corner of Junhui’s mouth twitches upwards in a wry half-smile. “That Christmas shindig? That was _you_?”

“Well, kind of—” Jihoon smiles. He puts on his best business face and tries to explain. “You see, I’ve recently joined the CCCC.”

“The Coca-Cola collectors club?”

Jihoon best business face wilts into a frown. “ _No_. It stands for the Choi Corporation Celebratory Committee. Haven’t you _heard_ of them?”

“Oh yeah— _those dorks_.” Says Junhui through a snort, though Jihoon doesn't see what’s so amusing about it.

“Yes, well, I’ve been tasked with trying to encourage more people to come, but I’ve been asking around all week and not getting much interest. So I was hoping maybe…maybe _you_ could help?”

Junhui just blinks for a moment, and Jihoon doesn't think this a particularly good sign. Apparently, though, the guy just needs a moment to catch up, because his face lights up in a eureka way.

“Oh—you want me to spread the word?”

“Yeah!” Jihoon chirps, expressive eyes gone wide and sincere. “You’ve got lots of friends around the office and people generally listen to what you say, and yeah, I know the last Christmas party was pretty crappy, but we have a much better budget this year, and we’re trying our best to throw something really special for everyone to enjoy.”

Junhui mouth twists, gaze turning heavy with consideration before he says, “It’s not really my scene Jihoon, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh. Okay—"

“But—” Junhui interjects, holding up a hand. “I do like you.” His eyes travel up and down Jihoon's body. “And I _do_ like how that waist coat flatters your ass.”

“Uhm—thanks?” Jihoon coughs, tugging his waist coat down a little.

Junhui leans back in his chair, casual, as if he compliments people’s butts like this every day. Which, in retrospect, he probably _does_. 

“Whaddya Soonie?” He calls out over his shoulder. “Should we go?”

Soonyoung nods approvingly, “Why not. How many people are you expecting, Jihoon?”

“Hopefully everyone. We’ve got the budget to cover all the food and drinks, and we’re still undecided about the entertainment, but we’re hoping to book a live band. Something that will be a real crowd pleaser.”

“Sounds great.” Soonyoung grins, giving him a thumbs up.

Junhui, it appears, is not of the same opinion. 

“When you say _everyone_ —you mean everyone in the _junior_ staff, right?”

Jihoon doesn’t understand why there should be a distinction. “No, I mean everyone. The temps, the maintenance staff—all the lower tier colleagues as well as the department heads.”

A pained expression passes over Junhui’s face, “But not the big guy at least. Please tell me your beloved _Mr Choi’s_ not coming.”

Jihoon crosses his arms over his chest, struggling to keep the affront from his voice as he says, “And why not? Why shouldn’t he come?”

“Cause he’s a _buzzkill_.” Junhui drawls, rolling his eyes. “Every office has their Mr Scrooge at Christmas—we just have one 365 days a year.”

“He is _not_ a Scrooge.” Jihoon pouts. 

Junhui looks at him with something akin to pity. A weird smug sort of pity that Jihoon wants to slap that right off of his face.

Honestly, Junhui makes it very difficult to like him for longer than ten-second intervals. Jihoon wonders how he and Soonyoung have been friends for so long because the way things are going, because he figures Junhui would've had a few ‘unfortunate accidents’ with a stapler if it had been them having to share a room together for five years.

“Junhui _sort of_ has a point Jihoon—” Soonyoung speaks then, as if sensing the homicidal direction of Jihoon’s thoughts and hoping to intervene before it’s too late. “—Nobody wants to go to a party with their boss there. They’ll be on edge the whole time. He terrifies _everyone_.”

Jihoon scowls, though he knows Soonyoung is right to some extent, and it pleases him on some level to know he gets to see a side of Seungcheol few people ever do. But it makes him sad too—to know how _wrong_ they’ve all got him.

“No, he doesn’t. Not everyone. Not _me_. “He turns a commandeering look on Junhui and Soonyoung both, “Mr Choi gave us the budget increase for the party even after Mr Hong turned it down. Would a _Scrooge_ do that?”

Junhui gives him another slow once over, and yeah, he’s definitely checking out Jihoon’s ass.

“Were you wearing that waist coat when he did it? Because I can see one pretty _pert_ reason why he’d do anything you asked.”

That’s it. Jihoon’s never wearing this waist coat again.

“My waist coat had nothing to do with it, okay, he’s _always_ really nice to me.” He says, with an exasperated huff. “He was nice to me during my interview, and on my first day at work. He took me out for a celebratory breakfast when I passed my induction period, and when I was in Paris and made a complete ass of myself by throwing my—"

Jihoon cuts himself off abruptly then, and a look like panic widens his eyes because he has just remembered, in that moment, that Seungcheol still has his _thong_.

Seungcheol. Still. Has. His. Thong.

“OH MY GOD!” He squeals.

In a flash, Junhui and Soonyoung are scrambling out of their seats and leaping onto their desks.

“What? What is it?” Junhui gasps, brandishing his stapler. “Is it a spider? Where is it?”

Jihoon should probably feel bad about leaving them with their imaginary spider and rushing out of the room without a word of explanation. But all he cares about right now is getting back to Seungcheol’s office as quickly as possible.

* * *

Seungcheol shifts, tucking his arms behind his head and gazing at the office's high ceiling. If his father was talking to him face to face, and not berating him over the speakerphone as he is, he wouldn’t dream of kicking back in his chair, rolling his eyes and yawning expansively. But the way he sees it—his father is hundreds of miles away, enjoying his retirement, so Seungcheol can do whatever the fuck he wants.

He can _say_ whatever the fuck he wants too—and not because his father isn’t in the room. But because he’s thirty-nine years old. A grown fucking man, and this level of parental helicoptering is just fucking ridiculous.

“I don’t know what Jisoo told you—and frankly, the fact that he thought speaking to you behind my back was necessary is insulting enough, but for you to take his concerns on board, to call and question my ability to carry out my role is a slap in the face. All I’ve ever done is put this company first. I put it before myself, before my marriage—”

“Seungcheol—” His father attempts to interrupt, voice straining to sound patient.

“—so I don’t think it’s fair of you to question my competence.”

The line crackles as his father sighs into the phone.

“I am _not_ questioning your competence Seungcheol. I don’t care if you’re fucking your PA, I was just a little surprised to hear all about it from someone else. I mean—you’ve never _mentioned_ him before, and up until yesterday I didn’t even know you _had_ a PA. Why all the secrecy? Were you even planning on introducing him to me, or is he just your little bit of rough on the side?” His father's voice lilts upwards, inviting Seungcheol to fill in the details.

“It’s not like that at all.” Seungcheol grits out angrily. “I haven’t—we haven’t done—"

Seungcheol is at a loss to explain why his face rushes red, why after all these years he still feels the urge to justify himself to his father.

Whenever the man calls, it’s like being a kid all over again and it's not as though he's embarrassed. Hell, his father knows all about who he dates, not to mention his occasional trysts with strangers during trips abroad. He may not know anything more specific about his preferences and proclivities—they don't _ever_ discuss their respective love lives—but he knows _him_. Why should he be self-conscious? So long as he doesn't force him to replace Jihoon, why does he even care?

Maybe it's because Jihoon is different. Jihoon is…is _everything_ , a complicated tangle of emotions with nowhere to go. He is a vulnerability, and an intensely personal truth. Maybe it's only natural for warmth to rise in Seungcheol's skin at being caught out.

But before he can marshal the usual denials or assurances, the office door bursts open and Jihoon comes rushing in, red faced and breathless.

Seungcheol straightens in his seat, feeling all the colour drain from his face. 

Oh, shit. How much as Jihoon _heard_?

“Oh my god Seungcheol—”Jihoon gasps as he comes to as top in front of his desk, sending Seungcheol’s pulse skyrocketing. Then: “I just remembered you still have my thong! My lacy red thong!”

And just like that, Seungcheol can feel all the blood returning to his face in one big whoosh. Oh shit—just when he thought things couldn't get any worse.

“Uhm—” He begins, just as his father’s laughter spills out of the receiver.

Jihoon’s eyes widen a little when he drops his gaze to the phone, to the tell-tale blinking of the speakerphone setting. Then his expression goes even more cartoon-like than usual, all big, wide eyes and slack-jawed surprise.

“Oh no.”

His father’s laughter trails off, and Seungcheol can practically hear him waggling his eyebrows “You were saying?”

“I’m going to have to call you back dad.” Seungcheol grunts, leaning over to end the call.

He slumps back in his seat with a huff, and levels Jihoon a seriously pissed off look from under his brows.

“Thank you for that Jihoon. Do you know how _awkward_ that’s going to be? Calling my father back to explain why _I_ have _your_ lacy red thong?”

Jihoon’s bottom lip turns out in a pout that is positively toxic.

Seungcheol honestly suspects he spends hours in front of a mirror perfecting it.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was on loud-speaker. I thought you were by yourself, and I just remembered that you never gave me my thong back.”

Seungcheol throws his hands up, “And so what? You need it back right this exact second?”

“No, I just—” Jihoon swipes a hand through his hair, looking agitated, “I don’t know why I was panicking, I just realised ‘oh my god, my boss still has my thong’ and felt the need to rush up here and tell you. I guess it doesn’t really matter—it’s not like I had plans to wear it or anything.”

“Good,” Seungcheol grunts, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “Cause you’re not getting it back.”

“W-why not?” Jihoon asks in a hushed voice, his eyes big.

Seungcheol fumbles around, trying to think up a convincing excuse, and finally settles for vague bluster, “Because I lost it. Okay. I’m very sorry to tell you this, but the thong is gone. Long gone.”

Jihoon scrunches up his forehead. “You lost it? How?”

Seungcheol blinks. Keeps his guard up and his expression bland as he thinks.

The secret to lying well is to surround the lie with as much truth as possible, so that it becomes difficult to extract the untruth from amongst all the honesty. Except there’s not a shred of honesty Seungcheol can reveal in this particular situation—unless he wants a slap in the face. And after what he did to Jihoon’s thong, he probably deserves a slap.

So _yeah_ —he’s going to have to lie about everything.

Lie through his fucking teeth.

“It’s a pretty funny story actually.” Seungcheol claps his hands down on his thighs and gets to his feet. “I was reaching in my coat pocket for my lighter. And then—”

“Your lighter?” Jihoon interjects, suspicious.

Seungcheol blanches, because it’s really not a good sign when the person you’re lying to starts questioning the details of your story from the _beginning_. Interrupting a lie in the making can cause it to sprout more twists and turns than you were previously expecting.

“Yeah—A lighter.” He repeats, trying to remain assertive. “You know, so I could light up a—”

“A _cigarette_?” Jihoon’s voice sharpens, “I thought you said you would stop smoking?”

“Oh, no—no no.” Seungcheol flounders, feeling his cheeks heat up. Surely, he’s not going to break into a sweat?

“It wasn’t a cigarette, it was a ….a _sparkler_! That’s right, a sparkler. I was lighting up a sparkler.”

And woah, that came out sounding crazier and more vehement than Seungcheol had intended. He wonders if it’s too late to start this conversation over, so he can come up with a more plausible lie.

Probably not.

“A _sparkler_?” Jihoon echoes.

Seungcheol nods slowly while his brain works things out in speed mode.

“Yes, because I was at a friend’s party. A _Christmas_ party. And they were handing out _sparklers_ for some reason. And absurd as it may seem, I had one, and I wanted to light it, with my lighter. So I reached into my coat pocket and I accidentally pulled out your thong instead, cause….it was still in my pocket from Paris and….and, you know, I’d forgotten all about it. But just as I came to put it back, this…this… _pigeon_ came…..and he, it grabbed it out of my hand…with its…with its _beak_!”

And oh shit—this is bad.

This is _very, very_ bad.

He’s losing control of the lie.

It’s spinning out of control, too fast to wrestle back.

“And I fought with it—I fought the Pigeon Jihoon. But it was stronger than me, and it got away. It flew away, with your thong. And that…that is how I lost your thong.” He finishes, puffing out his cheeks comically and widening his eyes. “ _Sorry_.”

He doesn’t know quite what he expects from Jihoon after that—maybe a disappointed head shake, or a squinty eyed look of suspicion, some expression that says he’s calling bullshit.

What he doesn’t expect is a genial smile and a chirpy, “Oh, okay then.”

Seungcheol pulls a disbelieving face at him.

It's heartening, in its way, that Jihoon is ready to believe his utter bullshit, but it’s also a miracle he’s survived in the corporate world as long as he has with such a low level of scepticism; Seungcheol’s going to have to keep him close, protect him from all the Machiavellian corporate shenanigans that give people ulcers and prematurely receding hairlines.

“ _Really_? You believed that?” He blurts out before his brain can tell him to keep his damn mouth shut.

Jihoon blinks at him, then cocks his head to one side. “Uh, yeah? Why would you lie about something like that?”

“Exactly. Why _would_ I lie?” Seungcheol asks rhetorically. Though he knows full well the answer to that is any lie would be better than telling Jihoon he jerked off all over his thong. Jerked off so hard he might have torn it a little—that dry cleaning was out of the question and probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.

 _Yeah_ , lying was essential. 

A silence falls between them then, that seems to stretch forward endlessly. There’s not much to do with your hands in a room like this, in a moment like this. Seungcheol chooses to put his hands in his pockets and wait it out. His case is made. There's no point in saying anything else because it’ll just make things more awkward. 

He could really do with less awkward right about now. 

“So, uhm, anyway. Have you decided what you want for lunch yet?” Jihoon asks uncomfortably, blatantly trying to guide the conversation into something more familiar. And _fuck_ , this is so much more awkward than five seconds ago.

Seungcheol wants to die. He wants the ground to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole, but the floorboards remain stubbornly solid.

Where is a massive structural failure when you really need one, he thinks bitterly.

“Look—” He lets out a breath and takes a step closer, “I’ll—I’ll _buy_ you another one, okay. To replace it.”

Jihoon's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh no, you don’t have to do that.”

Seungcheol grimaces as he scratches at his flushed neck. “I kind of do. I mean…I feel responsible. I probably could have fought that pigeon harder.”

“No, really—like I said, it’s not like I had plans for it or anything.” Jihoon murmurs.

And the thing is, he seems sincere enough. Despite that pink-cheeked, too-conscious look creeping back into his expression, it genuinely seems like he doesn’t mind. But that doesn’t change the guilt pooling in Seungcheol’s gut. Guilt of wrecking Jihoon’s thong in the first place, guilt at having lied about it to his face—and then the far more dangerous guilt of wanting to use it as an excuse to buy Jihoon more pretty underwear. 

Yeah, that’s right. Despite how uncomfortable this whole situation is, he wants to buy Jihoon _all the thongs._

“Jihoon—please, just let me buy you another thong.” Seungcheol pleads, which might just make this the weirdest request he’s ever made.

Jihoon’s blushing now, looking up at him with bright eyes that seem to say _‘I would like it very much if you bought me a thong’_ though his lips are moving around words that speak, “But I don’t need one.”

“Look, I’m buying you a pretty lacy thong and that’s final!” Seungcheol huffs.

Right about then, with his impeccably bad timing, Jeonghan materializes in the doorway and says, “FYI, there’s a great sale in Victoria’s Secret at the moment.”

Seungcheol glares in his direction then throws his hands up, “For fucks sake—don’t you people know how to knock?”

Honestly, he’s sick of everyone walking in at _just_ the right time to take things wildly out of context.

* * *

On Friday, room 22C has been commandeered for a far more important First-Aid training class, so the CCCC are forced to meet in a tiny, oppressively hot little room next to the canteen. It doesn’t have any windows and the air conditioning is bust, but Jihoon doesn’t mind—he’s just excited about showing everyone his decorations.

He’d stayed up late last night cutting out 200 snowflakes, spray painting them blue and silver and sprinkling them with pretty lustre dust. He’s got a million little papercuts to show for it, but not much else because nobody seems to really _care_.

Apart from an approving nod from Choon-Hee, no one seems especially blown away by his snowflakes. Even though they haven’t bothered to come up with any decoration ideas of their own. But then, Jihoon supposes if he’d been working with Chul-Moo as long as the others have, he probably wouldn’t have much enthusiasm for…well…anything.

Chul-Moo seems to have that effect on people. He’s so consistently negative it practically radiates off him, suffocating all the energy and zest in the room.

“No, no snowflakes. Snowflakes are _so_ last year.” He objects, earning eyerolls from pretty much everyone.

“How are they last year?” Choon-Hee protests, bravely on Jihoon’s behalf; she’s the only one who seems to try and push at Chul-Moo’s iron grip. “They’re _snowflakes_ —they happen every year. They’re a classic Christmas decoration.”

“Exactly.” Chul-Moo taps his foot impatiently. “They’re classic, traditional, _boring_. Veto!”

Jihoon swallows down his protests as he glances around the other faces in the room. A quick glance at Choon-Hee shows a gentler sadness in her eyes, quiet empathy for the decorations he’d spent days assembling or Jihoon or maybe both. Chan-mi’s focus remains locked on the notebook in her hand, but her features wear a discomfited look.

Sighing quietly, Jihoon moves over to the display board and starts collecting the snowflakes and decorations he brought to illustrate his proposed theme. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with 200 snowflakes, or the balloons and streamers and matching swizzle sticks—but he supposes it doesn’t matter. 

“Bad news guys—” Chan-sung says, returning from the adjoining room where he slipped out to take a call. “It appears that this close to Christmas, all the large venues are fully booked. Yes, even the roller disco arena, which was our last and most desperate choice.”

“Thank god.” Choon-Hee snorts quietly. She kneels down to help Jihoon re-pack and shoots him a playful wink. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t be caught _dead_ at a roller disco.”

“I think you’re failing to see the point—” Chul-Moo snaps. “We don’t have a venue to hold the number of colleagues we’re expecting to attend. The largest on offer only has capacity for 150 heads, and that’s well below the numbers we’re expecting.”

“Hold on a second—” Chan-mi interrupts, holding up a hand. “We didn’t even manage 50 heads last time. Since when are we expecting over 150 attendees?”

“Since we advertised free alcohol and food and entertainment. People tend to be drawn to those things.” Chul-Moo says, in a tone of _do I have to explain everything to you_ he uses on everyone.

“Also—I heard Wen Junhui’s caught wind of the party, and he’s been telling everyone about it, so we can expect the figure to double in the next week.” Choon-Hee adds.

“Wen Junhui? Who the _hell_ told Wen Junhui about the party?” There is a note of contempt in Chul-Moo’s voice.

Jihoon reluctantly raises his hand, because dealing with Chul-Moo’s always feels like walking into a minefield.

“Uhm—I did. I asked him to spread the word. Should I not have done that?”

Chan-sung raises an impressed eyebrow, “You’re friends with Wen Junhui? _The_ Wen Junhui?”

Jihoon’s not quite sure what Junhui’s done to deserve a ‘The’ before his name, except be a smug prick 50% of the time and a pervert for the other 50%, but he bobs his head in agreement, “Yep. He’s a good guy.”

Chul-Moo snorts derisively, “Oh yeah—good like Mr Choi’s good. Good in _bed_?”

Jihoon briefly considers not saying anything, because ever since Seungcheol bumped up their budget he’s had to put up with a lot of the same snarky remarks from Chul-Moo. But he figures silence is as good as any confirmation, and he can’t afford to let anyone think it’s true.

He doesn’t want Seungcheol to get in trouble.

“I keep telling you I’m not sleeping with Mr Choi. He’s just my boss.” He murmurs, staring down at the box by his feet.

Choon-Hee is quick to console him, reaching out to pat him on the arm, “Of course, you’re not Jihoon—he’s just teasing.” Her expression turns withering as he glances off to the side. “Aren’t you Chul-Moo?”

“Yeah,” Chul-Moo chuffs. He turns to give Jihoon a dismissive look up and down, then his mouth pulls into a thin line that is maybe supposed to be a smile, but doesn't quite achieve it. “Mr Choi is clearly _well_ out of _your_ league.”

Jihoon feels himself flush with humiliation and frustration. He can't think of anything to say, probably couldn't speak anyway through the emotion suddenly clogging his throat. And it’s ridiculous, he tells himself sternly, to feel like his heart had been torn out and stepped on, but he can’t help it.

It really hurts to hear someone say that.

“I don’t want to be in the committee anymore.” He croaks, grabbing his box of decorations and fleeing the room before anyone can laugh at him.

* * *

Usually Seungcheol hates shopping during Christmas. He dislikes the noise and crush of crowds, the same five Michael Bublé songs that play on repeat in whichever shop he ventures, and especially the nosy clerks that don’t let you get a foot in the door before they’re hovering over your shoulder asking ‘Can I help you with anything sir?’.

He’s lost track of how many times he’s snapped ‘I’m just browsing, leave me alone!’ today, but at least he hasn’t come away empty handed.

His shopping trip is a definite success, even if the assistant at the boutique was making him weirdly self-conscious as she wrapped his purchase.

She’d waggled her eyebrows when he selected the item, waggled them twice as hard when he requested gift wrapping, then her jaw dropped to the floor when she asked if he would like to purchase the matching bra and he answered _‘No thank you, It’s actually for a man’._

That shut her up. Though she still had the gall to slip him her phone number on a little piece of white card as he left the shop.

Seungcheol flicks it into the trash can as he exits the elevator on the 36th floor, smiling at the neatly wrapped package under his arm.

It’s a tad _unconventional_ , as gifts for your PA go, but he’s sure Jihoon will like it. And he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t imagined buying Jihoon similarly pretty things under different circumstances. Under different circumstances, he’d probably buy Jihoon the whole damn boutique, then sit back and watch as he modelled all the pieces while Seungcheol sipped egg-nog or something.

On second thought—he might just be confusing _‘different circumstances’_ with _‘wildly inappropriate sexy Christmas fantasies that will never happen’_.

Jesus—he really needs to get a hold of himself. 

The door to the filing room is ajar as he walks down the corridor to his office, and he pays it no notice as he strolls past. But no sooner has he taken two steps away, that he hears something that has him stalling mid-stride.

A sniffle. 

Turning on his heels slowly, Seungcheol doubles back on silent footsteps.

“I don’t know why he’d say things like that—” Another sniffle. “I guess he just doesn’t like me very much.”

Seungcheol's heart clutches unhappily at the distress in Jihoon's voice.

_What the hell is going on?_

He’d seen Jihoon just before lunch, and he'd seemed perfectly fine. Happy even, as he skipped off with his lunchbox and a cardboard box of Christmas decorations under his arms. What the fuck happened?

Carefully, Seungcheol creeps closer to the door, his forehead pinching with worry as he presses his ear against it. He can’t hear anything for a while, except a series of quiet sniffs and hitched breaths, then Jihoon’s croaky voice breaks the silence.

“But I tried to be his friend mom, I really tried. I tried to be helpful and accommodating to his tastes, but he just signalled me out every time I tried to contribute. He said my decorations weren’t good enough and made fun of my Christmas cookies. Then today, after he said that—It reminded me of—”

Jihoon’s voice cuts off then, into a choked back noise that would break anyone’s heart. Seungcheol’s no exception, and he finds himself reaching for the doorknob before wondering if it’s the wisest thing to do.

He can’t just burst in there unannounced and demand to know what’s happening, pull Jihoon into his arms and pepper his face with kisses. Well—he _could_ , but that would just create a whole host of other HR related problems and awkwardness, and it’s likely he’ll never get to the bottom of why Jihoon’s upset in the first place.

No. He needs to act rationally, calmly. As much as it pains him not to act on his protective instincts where Jihoon is concerned, he _needs_ to remain objective—to deal with this issue in the most professional capacity.

Pushing the door open just a little, Seungcheol pokes his head in to look, and all hope of objectivity goes flying right out the window. Almost immediately he’s overcome with a sharp surge of anger—anger so blinding his vision swims with red, and he has to take a step back before the grinding of his molars can give him away.

There are hundreds of ways to get away with murder. Seungcheol knows them all.

These are the thoughts that coursed through his mind when he took in the sight of his precious Peanut—shoulder shaking, dark red splotches of skin all over his face, and a fresh line of tears trailing down his cheeks. He hadn’t seen Seungcheol from where he’d been standing, huddled in the corner of the room with a phone against his ear, but Seungcheol had seen enough. He’d catalogued Jihoon’s misery in a split second and is already wondering _who_ he needs to kill.

Objectivity be damned—someone is going to die. Because they don’t look like happy tears. That doesn’t look like happy crying at _all_.

Turning on his heels, Seungcheol strides towards his office with purpose.

He isn't sure this is a problem he can solve _at all_ ; but dammit, he’s going to do his level-fucking-best to salvage the situation.

The trouble is, he has tunnel-vision, a serious case of it; Seungmin has it too –It’s inherited from their father after all – a pathological inability to think beyond actions to consequences. All he can do is look at the consequences afterward and _well fuck it all, this is what I'm going to do next_.


	3. There will be blood

Jeonghan hangs up the phone and looks at his watch.

The conference call has gone surprisingly well, and as usual when that happens, he’s basking in the after-glow, riding high on power and adrenaline. If he was a smoker, he would be whipping out a cigar right now to celebrate his hard work. But he isn’t—so he kicks back in his seat and debates the merits of indulging a little in his _new_ favourite hobby: subscribing Jisoo to more ridiculously inappropriate fetish magazines. 

He cackles when he pictures the look of abject horror on Jisoo’s face as a copy of _Diaper Bondage Weekly_ lands on his desk.

As much as he admires and respects Jisoo, the HR manager takes his job a little _too_ seriously. More seriously than even Seungcheol, and that’s saying something. When the CEO of the company has to tell you to _chill the fuck out_ on occasion, it’s a pretty sure sign you’ve got your priorities wired wrong. So Jeonghan’s taken it upon himself to find ways to help Jisoo de-stress—or at least, to find ways to distract him from the ‘completely inappropriate’ relationship that may or may not be happening on the 36th floor. If said distractions happen to get Jisoo all paranoid and flustered—well, that’s just a bonus.

Jisoo _does_ paint a very pretty picture when he gets all hot under the collar.

He’s browsing through a webpage about _‘The Art of Spanking’,_ when his phone rings. The caller ID tells him it’s Seungcheol, which could mean one of two things: he’s looking for someone to yell at or—

“Jihoon’s crying.” Seungcheol grunts without preamble.

Jeonghan is caught by surprise.

That… is not what he was expecting.

No. This is significantly _worse_.

Seungcheol’s rampant over-protectiveness towards his petite PA is nothing to scoff at. The last time Jihoon had uttered a quiet ‘ouch’ when he accidentally gave himself a papercut whilst handing out briefings, Seungcheol had practically broken the sound barrier getting across the conference room to be by his side. On the one hand, it was most hilarious thing that’s happened since Jeonghan’s started this job; not just anyone can ‘ouch’ and suddenly have the CEO himself appearing out of the woodwork to stoically make sure his papercut is cleaned, bandaged and kissed better. On the other hand, it was an overaction in every sense of the word.

So God _knows_ what Seungcheol will do now that Jihoon’s _crying_. 

Oh shit.

He’s probably called for an ambulance—or the _police_. He's probably called everyone with a phone number and yelled at them. For all Jeonghan knows, he might just well be standing on the ledge outside his window, threatening to throw himself off unless Jihoon stops crying.

Jeonghan shakes his head helplessly, “Well—can’t say I didn’t see this coming. You _can_ be a bit of a jerk.”

“I didn’t make him cry, you dickwad!” Seungcheol hisses so viciously Jeonghan jerks his head back, half-expecting a hand to leap out of the phone to strangle him. He brings the phone back to his ear with some reluctance, catching the tail end of Seungcheol’s rant.

“—And it’s not happy crying Jeonghan. It’s _sad_ crying. Very sad crying. He’s holed up in the filing room right now, crying sad tears. Sad tears!”

Jeonghan tightens his grip on the phone. “But if it wasn’t you, then _who_? Who made him cry?”

“Some fucker at the CCCC!” Seungcheol spits.

Jeonghan snorts, perplexed. “The Canadian Council of Christian Charities made Jihoon cry?”

“What? No, they’re the—” Seungcheol cuts himself off with an explosive sigh. There is a shuffling noise on the line, like he’s switching the phone from one ear to the other, then the sound of a door closing before he speaks again. More composed this time, but not by much. 

“I don’t quite know what it stands for, but it’s _some_ committee he joined that plans parties for the staff. They’re planning some Christmas party and Jihoon’s been helping. But now, they made him cry and I need to find who they are and where they meet, so I can kill them. Nobody makes my peanut cry Hannie. _N O B O D Y.”_

Jeonghan rolls his eyes before belatedly realizing that Seungcheol cannot see him.

“Calm down Seungcheol, you can’t just kill everyone who upsets Jihoon.” He reminds him for what must be the billionth time this week.

Seungcheol barks out a harsh sounding laugh. “Yes, I fucking can—and I _will_. He’s _my_ peanut, and my peanut should not be crying Jeonghan. He’s a small Peanut. The tiniest Peanut. And anyone who makes him this sad deserves a slow, painful death.”

Jeonghan sighs in resignation; Seungcheol has already determined that _there will be blood_ and he knows there’s very little he can do to talk him out of it.

“How do you know it was the CCCC?”

Seungcheol makes a wild, frustrated noise. “I overheard him speaking on the phone to his mother, he was saying something about someone laughing at his party ideas and picking on him. I couldn’t quite make it out because he was crying so much, but he said someone teased him about his Christmas cookies. His cookies Jeonghan, they made fun of Peanut’s Christmas cookies. I mean—have you _seen_ his cookies? They’re precious, and he puts so much effort into them. They’ve got little edible baubles and glitter and they’re shaped like little snowmen and candy canes, and why would anyone make fun of that? _Why_? I don’t understand.”

Jeonghan makes a sympathetic noise, “People can be so cruel for no reason, punching down when they should punch up. And Jihoon is probably an easy target for them.”

Seungcheol grunts, acknowledging the point.

The line is quiet for a moment, but Seungcheol’s still far from calm. He’s just pacing; Jeonghan can hear the scuff of his shoes against the floor.

“I’m just so pissed Jeonghan, he really loved being part of that committee and planning things, cause you know—he’s a little Peanut, and he likes making friends. That’s all he wanted to do—he wanted to make friends, and instead, they made fun of his Christmas cook—” He trails off with a low growl, and his voice is tense when he continues. “They have to die. I have to _kill_ them. I can’t bear to see him like this.”

Jeonghan rubs at his eyes tiredly, trying to remember if he'd been this stupidly in love with someone before.

Probably not—he’s never been stupid his whole life.

“Listen Seungcheol, how about you let me take care of this. I know just what to do.”

“No, I need to do it. I need to throttle them with my own two hands.” Seungcheol growls, which cements the fact that when it comes to Jihoon, he’s some kind of demented, lovesick pit bull.

Not that Jeonghan will ever make that comparison out loud.

“Uh-huh. Okay, but then you’ll probably end up in jail and what will happen to Jihoon? Have you stopped to consider that?” Jeonghan asks, because he’s pretty sure Seungcheol hasn’t stopped to think beyond the ‘kill everybody’ mantra running through his head.

That point proves prescient when Seungcheol answers with a flat:

“Jihoon will be happy again, because I will have murdered his enemies.”

Jeonghan titters at him, the proceeds to lay down some emotional bait, “Oh, I don’t think he will. In fact, I think he’ll be very _upset_ that his boss is in jail. I mean—if you end up in jail, he’ll be out of a job, or worse—he could be someone else’s PA, and would you want that? Would you really want him to be a PA for someone else?”

“No, he’s mine!” Seungcheol snaps without missing a beat, apparently as jealous as he is unhinged.

“Well in that case, I think we need to rule out murder. Take a more tactical approach to this problem that will get rid of Jihoon’s bullies and keep you out of jail.”

There is a long pause. Long enough that Jeonghan starts to worry that Seungcheol has already left to start his killing spree. But then:

“I suppose.” Seungcheol concedes, though he sounds distinctly unhappy about it. 

“Great.” Jeonghan smiles and sinks into the chair in relief. “So leave it to me, okay? The best thing you can do right now is stay there and make sure Jihoon’s alright. Talk to him, take his mind of things. _Maybe_ he’ll open up to you about what happened.”

This time the pause is even longer.

“You’ll make sure they’ll get what’s coming to them, right?” Seungcheol says, an odd mix of hopeful and deadly serious.

“Don’t worry Seungcheol, I’ll handle it.” Jeonghan says faintly.

He’s not making any promises, because his definition of disciplinary action and Seungcheol’s are clearly _wildly_ different. But he's got a few ideas up his sleeve, and if someone’s putting time and energy into picking on the smallest, softest human in the Galaxy, then they’re clearly slacking off at work.

* * *

Seungcheol has just set the phone down when the office door pushes open and Jihoon comes shuffling in.

“Oh, hello Seungcheol,” Genuine surprise crosses his features when he spots Seungcheol lounging by the desk, but he covers for it a moment later with a small smile. “I didn’t expect you back from your lunch so early.”

Seungcheol slowly lifts his hand of the receiver, making sure his face gives nothing away. “I —uh, I had to make a call. Important business shit, you know. Uhm, how about you? Why are you back early?”

“I guess I wasn’t that hungry.” Jihoon answers, moving around his desk.

Seungcheol watches him carefully. The hurried way he turns his head aside, the visible swallow as his throat works, the quick blink that could signal threatening tears. Whitened knuckles where hands grip his lunch box too tightly, and has to hold himself back from sweeping Jihoon into his arms and soothing his troubles away.

He bites his tongue to keep quiet, forces an air of patience even though patience is the very last thing he feels in this moment.

“Are you sure? You maybe want to… _tell_ me something?”

Jihoon's focus whips sharply back to him, and there's something instant and defensive when he murmurs, “Like what?”

“Nothing, I just….” Seungcheol coughs to clear his throat, fully aware that his tone’s broaching _‘concerned parent who’s just found out his kid’s soliciting drugs’_ territory, “You just—don’t _seem_ yourself is all.” He prattles on, trying to seem casual.

For the briefest moment, moisture glitters in Jihoon's eyes. He bites his lip and gives Seungcheol a hesitant glance through his lashes. Seungcheol waits patiently for the story to come tumbling out of him, but then Jihoon blinks, stubborn resolve hardening his features as he faces forward once again.

“No. There’s nothing. Everything’s fine.”

 _Everything is obviously so not fine_ —Seungcheol thinks, but from the determined look of _I don’t want to talk about it_ on Jihoon's face, there’s no point in saying it.

Breathing a frustrated noise, Seungcheol takes a seat behind his desk and returns to work. 

He mulishly soldiers on with his aborted freak-out for half an hour, typing REDRUM on repeat while strongly resisting the urge to go on a murderous rampage, until Jihoon finally stops tapping away on his keyboard and says, “I was going to make some tea, would you like some?”

Seungcheol stops pretending to be engrossed with his computer screen and grins, “Yes, yes I would. And you know what would go perfectly with some of your delicious tea? A few of your _amazing_ Christmas Cookies.”

Jihoon blinks across the room, caught-out and owlish. “R-really?”

Seungcheol nods magnanimously, “Of course. They’re the best Christmas Cookies I’ve ever tasted. Best cookies full stop.”

That, thankfully, makes Jihoon grin.

“Okay, I’ll go fetch you some!” He says, clapping his hands together and bouncing up out of his seat.

Abruptly, he looks so happy again, that Seungcheol wants to follow him into the kitchen and kiss those stupid, adorable dimples in his cheek.

Maybe if can keep Jihoon smiling, he won’t have to murder someone after all.

* * *

Jihoon’s too sad to wear his Santa had today. Or his Reindeer antlers. Or any of his Christmas sweater vests for that matter. He’s too sad to bake any Christmas treats or hum his favourite carols, and he’d definitely too sad to smile when Seungcheol comes into the office, whips off his coat and reveals that he’s wearing the _coolest_ Christmas Tree jumper underneath. 

It’s a manic-LSD-trip homemade pastiche of green fuzz, hot pink tinsel, sequin baubles and honest-to-God working Christmas lights that flicker and wink cheerily. 

Okay, that’s a lie. That does make him smile a little. Okay, maybe it makes him smile _a lot._ Especially because it almost feels like Seungcheol’s only wearing it to cheer him up or something. Which is like.…..the _sweetest_ thing ever!

If it’s true.

He has no way to tell of course. Except Seungcheol seems to breath a sigh of relief when he starts to giggle and readily agrees to take another selca with him. 

But he gets sad all over again when he passes a poster advertising the Christmas party on his way to the canteen. A poster _he_ designed.

Seungkwan’s got a meeting today, so it’s just him at their usual lunch table. But it’s not long before a shadow darkens his table, and he looks up to find Chan-mi, Choon-Hee and Chan-sung standing there, smiling at him.

It’s kind of creepy. Until Jihoon notices they’ve got their own assortments of canteen trays and lunchboxes in hand, and they’re staring expectantly at the empty seats. 

“Hi Jihoon, can we join you?” Choon-Hee asks hopefully.

“Sure.” Jihoon says with false cheer. He’d much rather sit alone if they were going to discuss party plans, but he doesn’t want to be rude.

They all take a seat around the table, but don’t reach for their lunches just yet.

Jihoon’s about to pop open his Tupperware box to offer some of his snacks when Choon-Hee touches his arm gently.

“Hey Jihoon, listen—we’re sorry about the other day. We’re sorry about everything actually—Chul-Moo was being a jerk to you from the start and we should have told him where to go ages ago. We didn’t stand up for you when we should have and we’re really sorry about that. But we were all talking, and we’d really like for you to come back to the committee. We really liked your ideas.”

“That’s really sweet, I appreciate that.” Jihoon smiles, fiddling with his napkin. “But I think it’s best if I just focus on my job for now. Besides, I don’t think I could keep working with someone who clearly doesn’t like me.”

They all direct matching looks of confusion at him. “But Chul-Moo’s _gone_ Jihoon. Didn’t you hear? He quit.”

Jihoon blinks at them

“He left the _committee_?”

“Yeah, _and_ his job.” Chan-mi adds, grinning from ear to ear.

Jihoon gapes, shock and relief jostling for position in his chest. “Really?” he asks, hardly daring to hope. Then he frowns, “Why?”

Chan-sung shakes his head and makes a noise which sounds a lot like a laugh, but at the same time isn't one. 

“We’re not quite sure _what_ happened to be honest. We know he was due a salary review in the next quarter, but suddenly it was bumped up, which _he_ seemed really positive about. But I was in the next room when he was _having_ his review, and it was a literal screaming match. Like, he was yelling his head off at his line manager and cursing up a storm, and it got so crazy security had to be called in.”

“Oh wow.” Jihoon murmurs, not one bit surprised he isn’t the only one to have issues with Chul-Moo. 

“He was put on suspension while they assessed his behaviour on ‘grounds of misconduct’—but you know what Chul-Moo’s like, he always has to have the last say. So he quit before they could fire him.” Chan-Mi gloats, vindictive glee written all over her face.

“So whaddya say Jihoonie?” Choon-Hee tilts her head in a motherly way, “Wanna help us plan the best Christmas party this company has ever had?”

Chan-mi leans in, a spark of challenge in her eyes. “We could be the JCCC?”

Jihoon snorts out a giggle, “I thought it didn’t stand for your names?”

Choon-Hee winks at him, “It’ll be our little secret.”

* * *

Christmas cheer reignited, Jihoon pops his Santa hat back on his head the second he returns to the office and immediately gets to work on a new ‘To-do’ list.

The party is only a week away, and there’s still so much work to be done, but he’s certain he can manage. And he’ll have to—now that’s he’s the new chair-person of the CCCC, it’s all up to him to approve a new caterer—because he doubts Chul-Moo will have left behind his contact list for them to use—and then there’s the decorations to finalise and the raffle prizes to buy, and of course, sourcing a venue large enough to stage the whole thing.

He’s not sure how he’ll pull that last one off so close to Christmas, but he thinks if he asks _extra sweetly_ , Seungcheol might just let them use the large conference hall on the bottom floor.

It’s large enough to erect a stage, and even doubles as the fire assembly point for the entire building—so Jihoon knows it’s big enough for a party with 300+ guests. He’ll just have to be patient and catch Seungcheol in a good mood. Maybe butter him up with some more Christmas cookies, and use his soulful kitten eyes.

Just this once. 

He’s halfway through finalising his list, when Seungcheol comes storming in, brushing snowflakes off his coat, rubbing his hands together and muttering under his breath about _‘fucking snow and fucking frostbite and that motherfucking fucker Jack Frost’_

Jihoon jumps up to fetch him some cinnamon tea and to drop some Hello Kitty hand warmers into his hands, giggling when Seungcheol takes one look at them and crushes them in his palms angrily—perhaps not realising that is what you’re _supposed_ to do?

Regardless, his foul mood evaporates a second later and he makes a small, pleased noise of discovery when the handwarmers activate and start warming him up.

“Huh. Toasty.” He says, managing to sound annoyed and amused at the same time.

Jihoon smiles and pats him on the head fondly. “I do have a plain set too, but I knew you’d prefer these.”

Seungcheol just harrumphs and eyes the Hello Kitty handwarmers as if they’ve just insulted his mother.

In profile his usual black attire seems too dark for the season, and Jihoon wonders if his boss will want to kill him if he bought him something red and sparkly for Christmas.

It’s tempting to find out.

* * *

Saturday morning, and the scent of warm sugar and spice fills the air.

Jihoon settles onto a stool at the kitchen island and goes over his to-do list one last time. Presents for all his friends and family? Bought and wrapped. Train ticket home to see his mummy? Booked and paid. Calls to the caterer and the music band? Already made. Gingerbread men to take along to work on Monday? Coming out of the oven in—he cranes his neck to check to the timer on the oven—five minutes.

He has nothing left to do but linger over his coffee and maybe check out the TV schedule to see what Christmas movies will be on later.

When he pads into the living area, he finds Seokmin has already beat him to it—sitting in the comfy corner of the couch watching Elf, feet propped up on the coffee table. 

Jihoon tries to copy him, but his feet don’t quite reach.

He pouts, scooting down a little in his seat to try again, but his foot slips off quickly. His brows go stern, but his tone is playful when he says, “You moved the table again, didn’t you?”

He’s pretty sure Seokmin does that on purpose—like Jihoon doesn’t get a hundred and one reminders that he’s small on a daily basis.

Seokmin laughs and bends one knee, hooking his foot around the table leg and dragging it forward, closer to the couch. Jihoon scowls at his housemate’s ability to make him feel like a five year old, but it soon quirks into a happy smile as he’s able to prop his feet up now without much effort.

“Oh, I almost forgot. A package arrived for you yesterday.” Seokmin says, waving a hand at the parcel balancing on the edge of the table. “You must have gotten _some_ pay rise if you’re splashing out on _La Perla.”_

Jihoon’s feet slip off the table as he straightens up to look at the package, surprised to find his name and address printed under the embossed label of a shop he doesn’t remember ever visiting.

“But…I didn’t order anything.”

Seokmin twists a bit so he can look straight at Jihoon, and his face lights up, “A gift then— _well, well,_ this changes everything.” He says, flashing what would be a sleazy grin if it were a little less dorky.

Slanting him a confused glance, Jihoon pulls the package onto his lap. It’s very light, probably 90% carboard and Styrofoam peanuts by the weight and feel of it. He turns it in his hands slowly, wondering what he could have possibly bought and forgotten about.

“La Perla—never heard of it.”

“Really?” Seokmin straightens up, eyebrows raised. “It’s a designer brand, a really _expensive_ designer brand. La Perla is like the _Chanel_ of lingerie.”

Jihoon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “Lingerie?”

He tears into the package before Seokmin can say anything else, peeling off the tape and tipping out the Styrofoam peanuts until he frees a slim silver box from inside the carboard packaging. There’s a thin white ribbon holding the two box halves together, and layers upon layers of perfumed tissue paper to peel back—but finally, from inside a silk cream pouch he pulls out the prettiest thong he’s ever seen.

It’s made of the softest white silk, with delicate wisps of intricately woven lace fading out to the edges.

“Wow—” Jihoon gulps, running his fingers over the cold silk. “It’s really pretty. The prettiest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Seokmin breathes, laughing lightly, “But what does the _note_ say?”

Jihoon glances down in momentary confusion, until he spots a card nestled in amongst the folds of tissue paper. Seungcheol's neat penmanship cuts across the page in a ruler-straight line.

_Merry Christmas Jihoon._

_Sorry I took your thong,_

_Later xx_

_Mr Pigeon._

_P.S. Coo_

“Okay—what does that even _mean_?” Seokmin huffs, peering at the card over his shoulder.

“It’s a long story.” Jihoon shakes his head, blushing. He can't squash the butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach.

He spends a moment staring at the card, tracing the lettering with the tip of a finger. 

The ‘L’ in ‘Later’ looks heavier than the rest, as if Seungcheol had paused in the writing. Jihoon supposes it could be coincidence, but he'd like to hope Seungcheol was originally planning to write ‘Love’ and reconsidered for some reason. Maybe he didn't like the way ‘Love xx’ sounded. Maybe ‘Lots of love xx’ seemed too inappropriate.

Maybe, just maybe, Jihoon is looking for something that isn't there.

“It’s from Seungcheol isn’t it?” Seokmin finally breaks the silence.

Jihoon’s shoulders stiffen, although he guesses he really shouldn't be surprised. Seokmin’s always been far too observant of his moods, and if anyone’s going to notice him fawning a little too much over a simple note in a card from his boss, it would of course be Seokmin.

"I don’t—" Jihoon starts, but he isn't sure what he’s even trying to say.

Seokmin cuts him off before he can decide, “You don’t have to say anything, I know it’s him. I was there when he came over for dinner, remember?”

Jihoon isn’t altogether sure why this is coming up now, but he answers anyway, as authoritatively as he can while Seokmin is busy pawing at his gift.

“I don’t know what you mean. What happened at dinner?”

Seokmin shrugs affably, “I’m just saying, I was there; anyone with eyes could see your boss has a _thing_ for you.”

Jihoon lets out his breath. “He does _not_ have a _thing_ for me.”

“Yes, yes—of course he doesn’t,” Seokmin says carelessly, breaking into a grin. “I forgot it’s traditional for your boss to buy you sexy underwear at Christmas. Hey—remember when Chef Kwon gave me my first sexy designer thong? Oh wait, that right—that never _happened_.”

“It’s only to replace the one he _lost_.” Jihoon tosses back casually.

Seokmin’s eyebrows hit the roof.

“I’m sorry, what? You _gave_ him your thong?”

Jihoon cringes internally as he realizes what he's said. “No—not exactly.”

Seokmin puts on his "I'm waiting" expression, and Jihoon cringes for real this time.

“He sort of _rescued_ it, and I forgot to get it back off him after. Then I guess he lost it?” He stares down at the box in his hands for a moment before facing his housemate again, “I may have left out a few details about my trip to Paris because they were too embarrassing to share.”

“Okay, that’s understandable,” Seokmin says firmly, meeting Jihoon’s embarrassed gaze. “But you can’t look at that thong and really believe he’s not interested in you. That’s a _‘I've been thinking about you naked’_ thong. When someone buys you a thong like _that_ —they wanna fuck you. Possibly while wearing it.”

Jihoon half-laughs before he cottons on to the fact that Seokmin is serious.

“Oh my god Seokmin! No that’s..that’s not what he wants. Seungcheol doesn’t—” He takes a steadying breath, swallowing back a grainy, acidic lump in his throat. “He doesn’t see me like that. And anyway, he’s _way_ out of my league.”

Seokmin’s mouth drops open for a moment. “What? Who the _hell_ told you that?”

“It’s no big deal, just some jerk at work.” Jihoon waves his hand as if to push the thought away; as if he could forget how much it hurt to hear that. He’s too distracted to notice Seokmin’s shrewd eyes on his face, or the way they narrow at the obviously fake carefree smile he gives him.

“Please tell me you don’t actually _believe_ that.”

Jihoon tears his eyes away, shaking his head helplessly.

It’s… a terrible trick, admitting your own shortcomings. They’re supposed to bring someone closer to you, but whenever Jihoon tries it feels as though his secrets have been sandpapered away from him; it leaves him raw, uncomfortable, snappish. This is no different. Especially when there’s a tiny part of him, still a little insecure and weary at having his heart trampled on, telling him _it’s true though, you’ll never be good enough._

Seokmin, who has been watching him, unpicking his private revelations almost as soon as he becomes aware of them himself, turns a sympathetic gaze on him, “That’s bullshit. Okay—you _have_ to know that’s bullshit. Your ex was an asshole and you always deserved better, and yeah, the dates you’ve been on since knocked you back a little, but there _is_ someone out there for you. Someone who will treat you the way you deserve—and maybe that’s not Seungcheol, maybe you haven’t met him yet. But let me tell you this—if someone gave me 101 cutesy nicknames, bought me a sexy thong, handed over their 20,000 dollar watch without a second thought just so that I could get a better view of Paris and looked at me the way _he_ looks at _you_ —I wouldn’t be looking anywhere else.”

Jihoon feels his face heat until he’s quite sure it’s flaming. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, not quite knowing _what_ to say.

It’s difficult to argue against Seokmin’s logic when he _knows_ that if anyone else had given him even half the attention Seungcheol has, he’d immediately assume they were interested in him. He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating to accept it because it’s coming from Seungcheol—his _boss_.

He’s not naïve—or at least he hadn't _thought_ he was—but he's honestly never considered that a situation like this could happen outside of a really cheesy paperback novel, that it might happen to a guy, to _him_. But it… _kind_ of is.

“That _was_ a very grand gesture.” He admits finally, a cautious smile stretching his lips slightly. “The Paris thing—with the watch.”

“Yes, yes it was.” Seokmin nods emphatically. “ _Romantic_ , some might say.”

Jihoon blushes fiercely. There’s an unstoppable wave of warmth blooming in him, taking over his whole being.

“And he is pretty easy on the eyes.” He says, barely a whisper.

Seokmin’s forehead creases with annoyance. “Understatement of the century. Can’t you just admit he’s hot as fuck?”

“ _Yeah_ , I guess he is." Jihoon smiles a little wistfully and looks down at his hands so Seokmin wouldn’t see the naked want in his eyes **.** “But it’s not just that, you know? He listens to me—like _actually_ listens to me and cares about what I have to say. And he’s really kind and generous and funny _too_ , but not many people get to see that soft, sweet side of him.”

“Probably cause he only shows it to you. Cause he wants to make _sweet love_ to you.” Seokmin suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Jihoon takes a minute to collect himself by closing over the box and tidying away the packaging and very definitely not glowering, as he’s never managed a convincing glower in his life. He does, however, allow himself a put-upon sigh.

“I’m going to go chill in my room for a bit.”

Seokmin scoffs, “You’re going to try on your thong, aren’t you.” He drawls, but there’s humour in his tone.

Jihoon clutches the gift against his chest as he side-steps around the couch. “ _Maybe_.”

“Yeah!” Seokmin cheers, clapping his hands in mirth, “Then you can take a picture and send it to Seungcheol and finally get this show on the road. Oh, oh—and wear that lace collar you wore on my birthday. The white one. It’s a perfect match and would look amazing in a full-body shot. But send him a close up of your ass too. It’s the main attraction!”

Jihoon gives him a mock stern look over his shoulder. “Seriously—I could swear you’re trying to get me fired or something.”

Needless to say, Jihoon does not send Seungcheol a naughty picture of him wearing his new, pretty thong. But not because he doesn’t take one. 😉 But because despite how perfectly the thong fits him and how well the collar matches, he’s too shy. ☹

* * *

The last work day before Christmas and Seungcheol isn’t feeling an ounce of good cheer when he arrives at work. Possibly because he’s resigned himself to spending it alone, but also because there’s goddamned slush on his shoes and goddamned slush down the back of his neck and goddamned slush making the normally quick drive to work into an extended, jaw-cramping, headache-engendering _nightmare_.

Goddamned last-minute shoppers driving like it’s a sunny day in June.

His mood soon brightens though, because when he steps out of the bathroom, there’s the cutest little Christmas hamper sitting on his desk.

There’s also Jihoon, neatly stacking treacle tarts on a plate and the largest mug of cocoa in his favourite ‘FUCK OFF I’M BUSY’ mug, but that’s become somewhat of a tradition this past month. The hamper is definitely the outlier today, and Seungcheol’s grinning from ear to ear even before he reaches his desk.

“What’s all this?”

“It’s your Anti-Christmas hamper.” Jihoon explains, standing back and tucking his hands into his pockets with deliberate nonchalance. It’s not his most convincing performance: he looks too pleased with himself, and the slightest bit tentative, anticipating Seungcheol’s reaction.

“Anti-Christmas hamper?”

Jihoon fidgets restlessly as Seungcheol scans the hamper with a curious eye, “Yeah, well, I know you don’t like Christmas, but you’ve been really tolerant about _my_ love of it. You let me play Christmas music all month and decorate the office, and you’re letting us throw this huge party at the company’s expense, and it’s not fair that you don’t get to enjoy any of it. I wanted to be tolerant of your hatred of Christmas too, so I just picked up a few things that might help distract you from all the festivities. _Anti_ -Christmas things.”

Intrigued, Seungcheol pulls apart the bow **,** peeks inside and immediately starts laughing, “A cactus?”

“Yeah, cause it’s like the _opposite_ of a Christmas tree, cause it’s all prickly, instead of fluffy, and you can’t hang decorations on it, but it still brightens up a room.”

Seungcheol’s not sure he agrees with Jihoon’s logic on that, but he’s too amused to argue. And he’s got a bit of a kindred spirit connection with cactuses actually; they’re low maintenance and live by his most sacred rule: _leave me alone or I will stab you._

“What’s on the CD?” He asks, eyeing the CD case wedged between a bag of tortilla chips and a bar of ‘ _Chilli’_ flavoured chocolate. 

“All the anti-materialism songs I could find. It’s mostly heavy metal, which I wasn’t sure was your kind of music, but there’s not a _whiff_ of Michael Bublé on it.”

That sounds like music to Seungcheol’s ears.

He roots around some more, noting with delight that Jihoon’s also included his favourite bottle of whiskey amongst the array of non-Christmassy snacks, as well as noise-cancelling ear phones that promise a soundless experience, a Sea-Breeze scented candle that should go a long way in eradicating the cloying scent of Gingerbread he can smell absolutely everywhere, and the greatest Anti-Christmas movie of all time: Citizen Kane.

There’s also a small parcel tucked in the corner of the basket, wrapped in neon yellow wrapping paper and adorned with a neon pink bow—decidedly un-Christmassy. The small envelope tucked under the ribbon has a question mark written on it, and Seungcheol tugs it out carefully as he picks up the parcel.

“Oh, that’s your Christmas present.” Jihoon starts; Seungcheol snaps to attention immediately at his tone—cautious, a little embarrassed, a little bit ridiculously pleased. “And your invitation to the party.”

Seungcheol bites his lip as he thumbs open the envelope, considering the invitation.

He’d already made his mind up about not going—because he never goes to any of the staff functions and he can’t stomach the thought of having to work the room, smiling and clapping people on the back with the kind of forced gaiety that deserves its own section of the Geneva Convention. But for the first time in forever, he’s actually considering it. Not because he’s developing a sudden warmth for Christmas, hell no, but because _Jihoon_ will be there, and he would like to see more of Jihoon away from work. A lot. Maybe too much.

That’s…. _kind of_ the problem.

But before he can say anything, Jihoon jumps in with, “It’s okay Seungcheol, I know you’re not going to come.”

At Seungcheol’s surprised expression, he shrugs and drops his gaze. “Jeonghan told me to temper my expectations when I gave him his invitation, said that you’d probably not want to come and I shouldn’t be disappointed, not because you don’t like Christmas, but because you never go to staff parties.”

Seungcheol bites his lip and nods solemnly, “I do think everyone would enjoy it more if I wasn’t there.”

Jihoon shakes his head mulishly, untidy lines of hair falling forward over his eyes. “No, not everyone. That’s why I wanted to give your invitation anyway, let you know—if you _wanted_ to come, you’d be more than welcome. And screw anyone who says otherwise.”

Seungcheol's tongue is heavy and numb, so it takes him a while to manage even a simple, “Thank you Peanut.”

Jihoon ducks his head, one cheek creasing with the hint of a dimple. “You’re welcome.”

Silence settles unexpectedly between them—not awkward, exactly, but oddly expectant—and Seungcheol fidgets with the gift in his hands. He’s wondering if he’ll ever have the vocabulary to appropriately express his gratitude, or if this situation calls for a hug, when Jihoon flails a hand at him.

“Aren’t you going to open your present?”

Seungcheol studies the parcel, grinning, “But it’s not Christmas yet.”

“But I wanted to see your reaction.” Jihoon whines, pushing the package at him.

Seungcheol laughs and has some fun tormenting Jihoon by unwrapping it in an exceedingly careful and ladylike fashion. Finally, he opens the box and looks inside, then glances up, expression flat.

“No.”

Jihoon looks up at him, smiling sweetly, “I think they go well with your suit.”

Seungcheol pretends to be offended for about a second before offering, “How?”

“They’re just a little splash of colour to compliment your wardrobe.”

Pulling a considering expression, Seungcheol lifts up one sock—a glittery red, pink and white monstrosity, with Hello Kitty’s deceptively innocent face stitched on the front. He lets it dangle from his finger, murmuring, “Where did you even get these? I didn’t even think they made Hello Kitty socks in men’s sizes.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, “Hello Kitty has universal appeal Seungcheol, especially amongst the discerning businessman, such as yourself. Besides, I don’t think there’s a market the Sanrio brand _hasn’t_ branched into, so expect the matching tie and cufflinks for your Birthday.”

Seungcheol levels him a narrow-eyed look as he gathers up the box and stuffs it in the deepest, darkest desk drawer he can find.

There’s no way in hell he’s wearing these. Ever.

Which doesn’t explain how they end up on his feet by lunchtime. But dammit, they’re warm and fluffy and Jihoon was right, they _do_ go well with his suit; an unexpected pop of colour amidst the charcoal and navy he usually favours.

They’re discreet enough to go unnoticed too. Standing straight, with the pant cuff rolled down, you could never tell they’re even there—there’s just a flash of red peeking out from under the cuff whenever he crosses his legs. And that suits him just fine.

He’ll keep them, but nobody can ever know he’s sporting Hello Kitty merchandise.

**_Nobod_ ** **-**

“Nice socks.” a familiar voice chuckles.

Seungcheol glances up and promptly loses his battle with profanity. Because it’s hard to keep a cool head when you’re just kicking back in your office with your new Hello Kitty socks and suddenly there’s a guy in a red velvet suit with white fur trim standing at the foot of your desk. The near heart attack of finding someone dressed as Santa in your office, when you least expect Kris Kringle to suddenly appear, is cause enough for a _little_ swearing. And okay, he may have jumped a foot in the air too, but he’s hoping the guy dressed as Santa didn’t notice that.

“What the fuck are you doing in my office?”

Grinning, ‘The Santa’ tugs down his beard, “It’s me, Mingyu.”

Seungcheol graces him with an arch look as he retakes his seat, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I _did_ knock, but you were clearly too busy enjoying your socks.” Mingyu says, rounding the desk to inspect said socks before Seungcheol can roll his chair under the desk. “ _Oohh_ , very festive—and Hello Kitty too, wow, that’s the ultimate power move. Nothing says I’m secure about my masculinity like wearing Hello Kitty under your suit.”

Seungcheol doesn’t acknowledge the truth in this, just toes his shoes back on and starts doing up the laces. 

“They’re a Christmas present, from Jihoon.” He says tightly, not that there’s a reason to be defensive here. Of course, Mingyu knows they must be present from Jihoon, it would be preposterous to think he’d buy Hello Kitty socks for himself.

“Aw, that’s adorable.” The humour in Mingyu's voice is undercut by sincere curiosity. “And what did you get _him_?”

“Nothing.” Seungcheol answers tightly. 

Mingyu blinks slowly. “Really? Nothing? He bought you cute socks and you got him _nothing_? I never expected you to be the benevolent employer, but that’s pretty harsh man.”

Seungcheol feels the vein in his temple start to throb and suppresses a frustrated sigh. “Okay, _fine_ —if you really must know, I got him a thong.”

Mingyu's eyebrows shoot all the way up to his hairline. “ _Smooth_. Did you get him a pair of handcuffs and a vibrator too?”

“It’s not _like_ that,” Seungcheol shifts guiltily. He hopes he is wearing a good incredulous expression. “It was a _pretty_ thong, a designer one, to replace the one I wreck—LOST! _Lost_! To replace the one I lost.”

There’s no hope in hell that Mingyu has missed his little slip, because he leers at him, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Kinky. So… do you still _have_ it?”

Seungcheol flat out refuses to answer that question, or continue this conversation. He can’t believe he even started having this conversation in the first place, and with the window cleaner of all people. Next he’ll be chatting with the janitor about his masturbation habits in the corridors and penning a company newsletter titled: _Wrecking your PA’s thong? It’s more common than you think._

“Can I help you with something, Mingyu?” It's an artless parry, but it's all he can manage through the racing of his pulse and tightness in his chest.

There’s a wry twist to Mingyu’s mouth, not quite a genuine smile as he hooks his thumbs under his suspenders and leans back on his heels, “Just came by to try on my costume for the party. What do you think?”

Sparing him a brief look up and down, Seungcheol scowls, because the Santa costume is not what Seungcheol had envisioned— _not at all_. 

Mingyu’s got the hat and the belt and the black shiny boots, but that’s about the only thing his reincarnation has in common with the fat Jolly man. Mingyu’s trousers are much tighter, the red velvet stretches over his muscular thighs, attaching to a pair of red suspenders. There is no matching jacket, but rather a plain white tee, stretching out over the solid body underneath and leaving nothing to the imagination in that regard. Without the curly white beard obscuring his face, Mingyu looks…..pretty hot actually, and Seungcheol has to shut down the jealous part of his brain that wants to kick up a fresh fit.

This isn’t how Santa Claus is meant to look.

He should be round, and old and tubby. Non-attractive.

Seungcheol should not, under any circumstances, want a lap-dance from Santa Claus.

“You look ridiculous.” He says eventually, because he has to save face.

Mingyu chuckles deep in his chest, face lighting up like he knows Seungcheol doesn’t really mean it, and as Seungcheol glares, he turns and parks his ass on the edge of the desk.

He clearly plans to stay whether Seungcheol likes it or not.

“I _also_ came up to thank you. For inviting me to the party.”

Seungcheol gives him a hard, flat smile as he leans back and crosses his legs. His Hello Kitty socks smile up at him. “Let’s just get one thing straight—I didn’t invite you.”

Mingyu's eyebrows pinch together, “But Jihoon said—”

“He tricked me into letting you come, okay.” Seungcheol interjects, waving a hand. “It was either _I_ dress up as Saint Nick and humiliate myself handing out presents, or let _you_ do it. It was an obvious choice.”

“I see,” Mingyu laughs lightly, “So you prefer the idea of Jihoon sitting on _my_ lap.”

Seungcheol turns a sharp, disapproving look on him.; Mingyu is proving he can be a manipulative little shit when he wants to be, but—well, it’s _working_.

“There will be no lap sitting. You’re just handing out the raffle prizes. That’s it.” He says, in the well-perfected tone of dismissal.

“I dunno man—you gotta admit I make a pretty awesome Santa when I’m decked out like this. People are going to want to sit on my lap, no doubt about it,” Mingyu counters with a lopsided grin, patting his lap for emphasis.

It’s obvious Mingyu’s just teasing.

It’s just a joke and Seungcheol can take a joke; he does, on occasion, actually have a sense of humour. But…

“I don’t care about what everyone else wants, Jihoon is not allowed to sit on your lap.”

Mingyu cocks an eyebrow at him, “But it’s _tradition_.”

“Fuck tradition.” Seungcheol snaps, the breathless release of tension making it sound almost manic. “He’s _my_ peanut.”

Mingyu tilts his head up sharply.

He’s paying close attention to Seungcheol now, frowning. “I take it from these crazy waves of jealousy you’re aiming at me, you haven’t told him how you _feel_ yet.”

Ridiculous to laugh, but Seungcheol barks a startled burst of amusement before lowering his voice. “There _is_ nothing _to_ tell.”

Mingyu’s face contorts with sarcastic glee. “Now now, you should know better than to lie to Santa.” He waggles a gloved finger at Seungcheol, right before he breaks into song, “ _He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He knows when you’ve been bad or good, and when you’re having dirty thoughts about your PA. OOoohhhh you better watch out, you better not_ —”

“Mingyu?” Interjects a voice from the doorway.

Mingyu blanches, looking almost comically startled, and they both turn their heads towards the sound to find Wonwoo standing there, a manila folder in hand.

“What—what are you doing here?” He asks, stumbling a little as he takes in Mingyu and the outfit with a slow sweep of his eyes, “And, _Jesus_ …why are you dressed like a Santa Strip-o-Gram?”

Mingyu blushes, just a little.

“Oh, uhm—it’s a costume, for the Christmas Party tonight. I’m handing out the raffle prizes, so I just came by to try it on, make sure it fits.” He says, a self-deprecating smile twisting his features. Brushing some imaginary dust off his pants he adds, “So, uhm, how have you been?”

Wonwoo’s mouth works for a moment before actual words come out of it. “Uh, good. Great. You?”

“Not bad, not bad.” Mingyu drawls, crossing his arms over his chest. A moment later he uncrosses them. Then crosses them, and then promptly uncrosses them again. And just when it looks like he might break into the Ukrainian Hopak dance, he slips his hands into his pockets and says, “And yourself?”

Wonwoo answers that like he hadn’t already been asked the same question five seconds ago.

“I’m good. You know me, just working away. How about you?”

“Someone shoot me, _please_.” Seungcheol groans, because _someone_ has to say _something_ before this exchange goes on. Possibly _forever_.

Mingyu and Wonwoo exchange a quietly sheepish look that quickly slides into something warmer—amused, bordering on appreciative? It’s hard to tell from this angle, but whatever that look is, it has them both shifting uncomfortably and sizing each other up, and Seungcheol has to wonder if they’ve got history. Sexual history.

Even more so, he wonders if they can take their sexual awkwardness and silent staring business elsewhere. Like anywhere that’s _not_ his office.

“Well, it’s great to see you again. You’re looking…really great.” Wonwoo says, in a voice which could be called flirtatious if it were used by anyone other than Wonwoo.

Mingyu’s answering smile is tinged with relief. “Thanks. You too.”

Seungcheol mimes shooting himself because season of hope and forgiveness be damned, why are they still _here_? It’s _his_ fucking office, and he’s trying to enjoy his lunch hour and his Hello Kitty socks in peace for fucks sake.

Finally though, thank god, Wonwoo looks down at his hands, spots the folder and seems to remember why he’s invading Seungcheol’s office in the first place.

“Well, I uhm, I better get back to work. I just came to drop off these reports.” He says, setting the folder on the desk and heading for the exit.

Mingyu watches him go with a look that is equal parts hope and hopelessness, hands twisted together, throat moving awkwardly in one narrow swallow after another. But just as Wonwoo steps through the doorway, he stops and glances back over his shoulder, and there’s a brief little flicker when his usually stoic expression softens into something else.

“Maybe I’ll catch you at the party later.”

“Sure—you can sit on my lap.” Mingyu smirks, giving a playful tug to his suspenders. At Wonwoo’s sceptical look, he adds, “You know, cause I’m _Santa_?”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Wonwoo stammers, practically stumbling out the door in his rush to leave.

Seungcheol waits until the door shuts and Mingyu’s facing him again, before sharing his thoughts on the whole situation.

“Smooth. _‘You can sit on my lap?’_ —What the hell were you thinking?”

Mingyu points an accusatory finger. “Hey—out of the two of us, you do _not_ get to say that, okay. You bought your PA a thong for Christmas.”

* * *

“You’ve done a great job Jihoonie,” Seungkwan comments, looking around the room in awe.

It’s been decorated with silver and blue rather than the traditional red and green, and it makes everything look somehow more polished and professional, but no less festive. The snowflakes Jihoon made are hung from the ceiling at varying heights, and they seem to twinkle and sway as people move through the room, giving the appearance that a light snow is falling. 

It’s beautiful really, and Jihoon’s pretty happy with his efforts. Almost as happy as he is with the turn-out, because the room is completely _packed_.

He’d been there when the doors were opened, greeting everyone as they arrived, and he’d done a head count; 377 staff members in all. It’s the best turn-out a Choi Corporation staff party has ever had and that’s something to be proud of. And most importantly, everyone seems to be really enjoying themselves; the live band Choon-Hee booked at the last minute have been a real hit and the raffle prizes were a massive success; the buffet is being wiped clean faster than it can be replenished and the alcohol is flowing freely.

Perhaps a little _too_ freely.

The darker areas of the huge room are stupidly crowded with couples who seem to think it’s a totally okay place to have sex. Like, doesn’t the building have a profusion of empty offices they could sneak off to?

Jihoon quickly averts his gaze when someone, _‘oh my god, is that Wonwoo?’_ starts giving someone, _‘oh my god, is that Mingyu?’_ a live-action lap dance.

Yep, no, that’s— _yeah_ , there’s not enough washing detergent in the _world_ to cleanse his eyes of that image.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself—” Seungkwan adds, watching the lap-dance unfold with a disturbingly thoughtful expression, “This might just be the best Christmas Office party I’ve ever been to.”

Jihoon smiles and sips his punch, “It was a team effort.”

"There you guys are!" Junhui laughs as he breaks through the crowd. He squeezes his way between them and slings an arm around them both, ignoring the death glare Seungkwan levels his way. “Have you guys seen Vernon? I promised him a _hell_ of a lot of money to borrow Mingyu’s costume and do a sexy Santa strip tease for us all. But I think the little bastard has chickened—oh wait, never mind. There he is!”

It takes a minute for Jihoon to realize what Junhui is talking about, and another moment for him to notice the room has grown quieter. He turns around in time to see Vernon take the stage, fully decked in a Santa Claus costume.

He looks a little sweaty—a little anxious as all eyes turn on him. Then the music switches and _Santa Baby_ starts playing over the speakers. With a nervous swallow, Vernon reaches for the big gold buckle on his belt and—

“Oh HELL NO!” Seungkwan yells, already pushing his way through the crowd. 

At the sound of his voice, Vernon's head snaps up so suddenly he looks like he's given himself whiplash. He doesn’t manage to get any further in his little strip tease before Seungkwan’s sprinting across the room, clambering up on stage and dragging him off. By the _beard_.

Their abrupt departure causes an uproar of laughter amongst the happy, half-inebriated partygoers, but Jihoon, ever the diplomat, hides most of his grin as he watches Seungkwan haul his _‘not-boyfriend’_ out of the room.

“I knew it—” Junhui titters as the ensuing laughter dies down. “I _knew_ he still had the hots for Vernon. He was just too proud to admit it.”

Jihoon darts a sideways glance at him. “Are you saying you _orchestrated_ that?”

Junhui’s eyes soften around the edges and his lips twitch. The early warning signs of one of his super smug episodes.

“Well _someone_ had to take over the roll of matchmaker when you threw in the towel.” He shrugs affably, “Couldn’t have my buddy Vernon moping around broken-hearted now, could I?”

Jihoon matches his smug nod with a more demure one of his own, “Not the tactic I would have gone for, but well played Junhui—well played.”

Junhui flashes his patented god's-gift-to-women smile at him, and then gestures at his half-empty cup. 

“Looks like you need a top up. Or better yet, a _real_ drink. What’s your poison?”

Jihoon considers the array of drinks on offer for a second, then shakes his head. At the current rate of inebriation in the room he _could_ afford to be less sober, but he feels too responsible for the logistics of the party, never mind the risk of making a total _ass_ of himself in front of everyone. He’s always been a bit of a lightweight and hates the total memory wipe-out effect alcohol has on him. 

“Oh, none for me, thanks. I try and avoid alcohol when I can, unless you’d like to see me onstage attempting a sexy Santa striptease next.”

Junhui looks genuinely thrilled at the prospect, “Sounds good to me.”

He produces a flask out of his jacket pocket and tries to top up Jihoon’s cup, while Jihoon sways backwards to keep it out of reach.

“No, really—I shouldn’t.” Jihoon giggles, swirling the swizzle stick in his cup. “I’m determined to attend at least one Christmas work Party without making a fool of myself. That’s why I’m sticking to the alcohol-free punch.”

“Alcohol free?” Junhui echoes dubiously. His smile turns coy as he eyes the pink liquid in Jihoon’s cup. “That’s what _you_ think.”

Jihoon’s stomach drops as he stares down at his glass. “Oh no.”

This isn’t…well…this isn’t good. He’s hardly eaten anything all day he’d been so focused on the preparations, and has been refusing offer after offer of something stronger knowing full well Seokmin's working late tonight and he would have to catch the bus back home later. Now he’s lost track of how many re-fills he’s had and, _crap_ —no wonder he’s starting to feel a little funny around the edges.

“Lighten up Jihoonie—” Junhui wheedles, bumping shoulders with him. “It’s a Christmas party, everyone’s _supposed_ to get a little tipsy and do stupid, impulsive things. Besides, if you do end up making an ass of yourself, at least nobody will be sober enough to remember."

Jihoon snorts his agreement, amused right up until Junhui leans forward quickly and tilts his face to slant his lips over his, soft, warm and easy.

It’s a quick kiss—there and gone before Jihoon knows how to react, and then Junhui’s stepping back, one eyebrow raised expectantly, even as something serious lurks behind his teasing, irreverent grin.

“Um, _o k a y.”_ Jihoon says slowly, meeting Junhui’s gaze with his own baffled look. “That was unexpected. Thanks, I guess. I mean, it was _nice_ , but I—”

He’s in the middle of butchering a sentence about being flattered but also wanting to remain strictly friends, when Junhui cuts him off with a gentle snort, almost fond as he reaches out a hand to lightly smack Jihoon about the head.

“Relax little man—I’m not your type, I get it. I just figured I’d give it shot, y’know?”

Jihoon barks a short, shocked laugh and takes a steadying, deep swallow of his drink, bolstered by the familiar amused glint in Junhui’s gaze.

“I don’t think I do Junhui. I mean, I’m the _last_ person I ever expected you to hit on. I didn’t even think I was your type.”

“Why’s that?” Junhui says, leering in an exaggerated fashion as he leans back to give Jihoon a slow once over. “You’re cute, you’ve got a great ass—I mean, I _have_ thought about asking you out a couple of times, but then I realised there’d be no point—you’ve clearly got a thing for broody, angry _older_ men in pinstripe suits and a superiority complex.”

Jihoon blinks, slow and deliberate to detract from how his hands are shaking in mild panic and tamps down a sudden, indescribable urge to crawl under the buffet table and hide till the party’s over. But no— _no_. He’s an adult. He can _handle_ this.

“I—don’t know what you mean by that.” He says, voice low and almost breaking, tense.

Snorting, Junhui slouches back with smug satisfaction radiating drunkenly from every pore. “Oh please, I’ve been watching you all night Jihoon. Everyone’s partying, mingling, having a great time, and _you_ —you’re hovering around the edges with your eyes on the exits, hoping _he’ll_ show.” He takes a generous sip from his flask before pocketing it again, “Hell, I’m surprised you haven’t just gone upstairs and tried to drag him down yet.”

Junhui’s announcement is the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid all at once to get the cringing and crying over with as quickly as possible. Even so, being told, _‘It’s so obvious you have a crush on your boss,’_ is the kind of thing that takes a little time to sink in.

And even then, after the metaphorical dust settles, Jihoon’s mind is suddenly awash in distress signals and fluorescent lights and possibly little emoticons wearing various expressions of sadness.

“Hang on, _what_? He’s still _here_?” He gasps, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, as if he can look through 36 floors of metal and concrete to where Seungcheol is holed up in his office.

“Yeah, his SUV is still parked outside. Saw it when I went out for a smoke.”

“Oh no.” Jihoon’s heart-breaking in two at the thought of Seungcheol working away upstairs, alone, while the entire office parties below. He must be so lonely, and grumpy, and he’s always extra hungry when he’s grumpy. “I should take him some food.” He chirps, leaving Junhui’s side to join the single file line of people waiting at the buffet table.

The caterer Seokmin recommended has put on quite the spread and everything looks delicious, so Jihoon grabs a paper plate when it comes his turn and starts piling on all the foods he thinks Seungcheol will enjoy. He grabs two of everything; caramelised onion tartlets and baked camembert dough balls, Thai chicken skewers and spicy pork Bao buns, a few mini quiches as well as some puff pastry mince pies. There’s also the most decadent chocolate fudge cake in the centre of the spread, shaped like a Christmas tree, and it has Seungcheol’s name written all over it.

Not literally of course, but Jihoon knows he just _has_ to get Seungcheol a slice. And possibly a second plate at the rate he’s filling the first one. 

“ _Seriously_?” Junhui drawls from where he’s rounded the table to shake his head at him. He looks like he can't decide whether to be amused or exasperated. “I’d really love to know what that Jackass has done to deserve you fussing over him like this. I know he’s not hurting for money, but I doubt you care about that. So it must be something else, something nobody else has seen.” He muses out loud.

He waits for Jihoon to finish cutting a chunk out of the cake before he leans closer, keeping things furtive. “It’s his dick right? It’s _huge_ , isn’t it?”

It must be testament to how many glasses of spiked punch he’s had that Jihoon’s first response to this is a blithe, “I hope so.”

He slides the cake onto a plate and continues piling on food, only realising _‘Oh my god—what did I just say?_ ’ when Junhui bursts out laughing a moment later.

“You should see your face right now. I can’t believe you admitted to it—you want the big dick!” Junhui bellows with laughter, so hard that he has to bend forwards and lean his hands against his thighs.

Jihoon watches him in quietly building horror for a moment.

He wants to _die_. He feels like it might actually happen—a heart attack or a stroke or just death by abject humiliation. It’s all entirely possible. But he’ll have to pencil in _‘Dying from embarrassment’_ in his calendar for some other time, because Junhui’s laughter is now starting to draw the wrong kind of attention.

“Will you lower your voice!” Jihoon huffs, curbing the plate on the table to flail a hand at him. “You’re going to get me in trouble if someone hears you.”

Junhui sobers up a little at that, putting on the apologetic smile that gets him out of so much trouble. 

“Sorry, sorry—It’s just too funny.” He gasps, patting his jacket pockets as he straightens up, “All this time, everyone’s been thinking you’re just sticking up for him cause you’re angling for some kind of promotion. But I knew, I _knew_ there was more to it than that. I knew you had the warm fuzzies.” He practically _wheezes_ as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Even though he’s still recovering from his amusement and painfully out of breath, Junhui has no qualms about lighting up in the middle of the goddamn party.

Jihoon’s indignant glare doesn't even faze him. Though he manages a “Hey! What gives?” and an indignant look of his own once Jihoon plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and drops it in the spiked punch bowl.

“Smoking is bad for you Junhui.” Jihoon pouts, waving a finger. “No smoking.”

Junhui holds up his hands, his eyes a little wide. "Okay, okay, dude. Don't get an aneurysm about it."

Jihoon gives him one last glare, just for good measure, and then battles his way back through the crowd with the plate of food in hand.

* * *

Seungcheol’s evening is full of stock reports, harried phone calls, and a lengthy attempt at trying to break his high score on Tetris. Unfortunately for him, there nothing much to do to pass the time this side of Christmas, and the office has gotten gradually quieter as people clear out to head for the party. Around nine, the absolute stillness starts to feel depressing, and Seungcheol prepares himself to call it a night a handful of times, but the knowledge that things aren’t going to be more cheerful at home, keeps him glued to his seat, staring out the window at the snow.

It’s been snowing weakly for most of the day. The snow has been melting into the damp pavements (the only kind of white Christmas that Seoul ever manages is a half-hearted one), but now that it’s dark, the flakes are beginning to stick a little, catching on the windows and clouding the streetlights and painting the ground with a thin coat of white.

If he leaves now, he might be able to avoid the worst of, might be able to make it home without engaging the four-wheel drive. But then it’ll just be him and a bottle of Scotch till New Year’s Day and that thought doesn’t tempt him. Not one bit.

He turns back towards his desk and reaches for his phone, but the sound of footsteps coming down the hall have him stopping mid motion.

Whoever it is lurking in the hallway stops briefly outside, as if listening at the door, then there’s a quiet knock half a second before someone pops their head in.

It’s Jihoon, and _of course_ it is. Who else would it be?

Only Jihoon would dare venture into his lair, and only Jihoon would smile like a cherub when he meets his eyes across the room.

“Hey Seungcheol! Someone said they spotted your car still parked outside, and I realised you were still here, working. So I thought I’d bring you up some food. You poor thing, you must be so hungry.”

Seungcheol stands and rounds the table as Jihoon enters and his eyes _bug_ out, as his eyes tend to do around Jihoon these days. Ever since he’s swapped his sweater vests for snug little waist coats, Seungcheol’s gaze has been lingering more than usual, captivated by that slim waist and stupendous curvy butt.

But Jihoon's looking especially good tonight, wearing the skimpiest, tightest white blouse Seungcheol’s ever seen and dark skinny jeans that appear to have been airbrushed on. They cling to the swell of his hips, showing off his trim waist and a very tempting stripe of pale skin, possibly with the express intention of making Seungcheol’s blood run several degrees hotter. His eyeliner is smudged in a way that seems deliberate, and his pretty mouth glistens as if inviting him to stare, and if that wasn’t enough to drive Seungcheol to distraction—he’s wearing a collar too. A real pretty one.

Delicate white lace, just like—

"You are hungry, aren’t you?" Jihoon asks, and Seungcheol realizes he's been zoned out and staring for god only knows how many minutes—long enough that Jihoon’s expression is beginning to slip with the first hint of uncertainty.

He shakes himself out of it, not sure how to cover his moment of distraction, then scrambles to accept the plate Jihoon’s holding out.

“This is very sweet of you Peanut—you didn’t have to do that.” 

“Of course, I did,” Jihoon says, something wry and soft in his voice as he clasps his hands together, “It’s my job to make sure you eat, and had I known you were still up here I would have brought you something up sooner.”

“Well, this all looks great.” Seungcheol says gesturing at the plate, heavily laden with, well, just about everything. He’s privately amazed at his ability to form words when Jihoon’s standing there, looking like _that_. But he isn't sure what to say next though, and the pause drags on uncomfortably. 

“So,” He searches desperately for something to say, “How’s the party going? Having fun?”

Jihoon's brow furrows as though he is genuinely considering the question. “Yeah, it’s uhm, it’s fun.”

Seungcheol frowns, switching the plate to his other hand. “You…don’t sound so sure about that.”

The furrow in Jihoon’s brow deepens. “I guess I enjoy the _planning_ aspect of a party more than the actual party. The build-up is always really exciting, but then on the night everyone’s so wasted they don’t really have time or coherency for a proper conversation. They just want to drink and dance and stick their tongue down your throat.”

The hot flare of anger in his chest takes Seungcheol completely by surprise.

He has to turn away and set the plate down on the table, quickly, before it becomes a messy smear all over his walls. When he faces Jihoon again, he’s clenching his fists so tightly he can feel the finer bones grinding in his palms. Finally he sighs, releasing his sudden anger like a long-held breath.

“Did someone stick their tongue down your throat?” He finds himself asking, even though he's really not sure he wants to know the answer.

Jihoon laughs at that, a low, startled sound. The laughter cuts off quickly, quiet confusion taking its place. “No, no—I just meant in general.” He shrugs then, casual and unperturbed. “Copious amounts of alcohol just make people _friskier_ than usual.”

“But nobody got frisky with you, right?” Seungcheol asks with just a hint of bristly protectiveness.

Jihoon stares at him for a long moment. He looks startled and a little bit lost, and his lips part on a response he can't seem to articulate. When he _does_ finally speak, he seems to be blushing. “No, nobody.”

Forcing his fists to unclench, Seungcheol nods brusquely, “Okay. Good.”

Jihoon seems stunned by his reaction and the silence that falls between them has never been so heavy.

Seungcheol can’t understand why, suddenly, it even exists. Jihoon’s always been great at filling any quiet spaces between them with his usual brand of lightness and joy and enthusiasm, but for once he seems content to just stare up at Seungcheol with a soft curiosity in his eyes that is making Seungcheol nervous as hell. 

“You probably want to head back to your party—” Seungcheol says, when he finds his gaze sliding down the open V of Jihoon’s shirt again, “I don’t want to keep—”

A hitching breath interrupts him mid-sentence then, followed by a quiet _squeak_ , and Seungcheol looks up to see Jihoon has a hand clamped over his mouth.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Jihoon shakes his head emphatically. But just then—another hitching breath shakes through him, followed by yet another muffled yet audible _squeak_ , and Seungcheol realizes Jihoon is…hiccupping?

Hiccupping and trying to keep it quiet, apparently.

“Is that how you hiccup?” Seungcheol asks, voice all amazement as he takes a step closer. “You sound like a squeaky toy.”

Jihoon frowns at him, through a slightly louder _hitch_ and _squeak_.

Seungcheol looks at him more closely as he hiccups again—at the now permanent flush on his cheeks, the too-wide bright eyes, and knows immediately, “Has someone maybe had a little too much to drink?”

Jihoon sways a little as he turns and glances over his shoulder, like he thinks Seungcheol’s talking to someone _else_.

“Who?”

Seungcheol smiles and shakes his head, palming his mouth to hide exactly how wide his grin spreads.

God, Jihoon _—drunk._ Who’d a thought it. 

“ _You_ Peanut—you’re drunk.”

“I am _not_.” Jihoon counters sharply.

Well—as sharp as his tiny hiccupping will allow, which is to say, not very sharp at all. Especially now that his whole body is twitching, bouncing a little with each squeaky hiccup.

Seungcheol bites on the inside of his cheek, trying desperately hard not to laugh, but in the end, he just can’t manage it.

It’s all too adorable for words.

“Hey, don’t laugh.” Jihoon puffs up indignantly, though he has to slap a hand back over his mouth a second later as his hiccupping increases tenfold.

Seungcheol regards him indulgently, “I can’t help it Peanut—you’re hiccupping like a squeaky toy. That’s the cutest shit I’ve ever seen.”

Jihoon pulls a face behind his hand, a light flush of embarrassment staining his cheekbones and darkening his already alcohol-rosy skin. He takes a deep breath in and _holds_ it, and Seungcheol can almost see him counting down in his head— _ten, nine, eight, seven_ —but he gets no further than _five_ before his body’s shaking with another tiny burst of sound.

“Okay, this is embarrassing. I’m gonna go home now.” He huffs, pivoting.

“Oh, no no—I don’t think so Peanut.” Seungcheol chuckles, reaching forward quickly and snagging Jihoon’s elbow before he can step away. He can't let Jihoon just leave, and certainly not like _this_. “You really think I’m the kind of guy who will let you get on Public transport, drunk? Think again.”

“I am not drunk.” Jihoon enunciates every word distinctly, in that too-deliberate way of the truly impaired.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes and huffs out a dry laugh. “Maybe not, but you’re adorable hiccupping says you’re well on your way.”

He lets go of Jihoon’s arm long enough to grab his coat and shrug it on, then drapes an arm across Jihoon’s shoulders as he collects his briefcase. “C’mon Peanut, I’ll give you a lift.”

Jihoon tries to object, but the words come out a messy garble with all the hiccupping he’s doing.

* * *

In the car Seungcheol turns the heat up and the radio down low. He’s opted to drive his 4x4 this past week—for convenience’s sake; it’s much easier to handle in this weather and almost matches the Ferrari’s speed if he really puts the pedal to the metal. Though he doesn’t dare attempt it tonight; sticking to a safe 45mph and taking the right lane on the freeway.

He’d dawdling, if he’s being honest.

He’s in no rush to get home and more to the point, in no rush to be rid of Jihoon. The thought of returning to his empty, soulless apartment is distinctly unappealing, made worse by the fact that after tonight, he won’t be seeing Jihoon for over a _week_. He’d rather draw out this moment for as long possible.

Having finally wrestled control over his adorable hiccupping, Jihoon hums quietly in the passenger seat, boneless and heavy lidded, watching the landscape blur past.

“I expected you to drive much faster,” He says with interest, peering out his window into the darkness. “What with all those speeding tickets you get, I expected you to drive _really_ fast.”

Seungcheol hums thoughtfully, “Usually I do, but on this occasion I happen to have very precious cargo on board.”

Jihoon spares him a quick glance, then cranes his neck to stare into the backseat. “Your briefcase?”

The traffic light’s red up ahead, and Seungcheol brings the car to a slow stop, hitching up the hand-break before turning his head to level a _‘Really? You want me to spell it out for you?’_ look at Jihoon.

Jihoon blinks at him quietly for a moment, and Seungcheol can see the moment he _gets_ it.

A visible tremble moves through Jihoon's small frame. There's an unsteadiness in the way he catches his lower lip between his teeth, something self-conscious in the hunch of narrow shoulders. But there is also something familiar and warm beneath those tells: he blushes, and the slowest sweetest smile curls over his mouth.

Seungcheol can’t help but smile back, can’t resist lifting a hand and sliding it round the back of Jihoon’s neck. Jihoon goes wide-eyed at the touch, plainly startled, but then he’s relaxing into it all at once, eyes sliding closed, tilting his head forward to expose more of his neck.

Seungcheol doesn’t know what to make of that, but he doesn’t question it either. Jihoon’s so lovely like this, head bowed, quiet and compliant. Irresistible.

“Good kitten,” Seungcheol murmurs, instinctive, and then pauses, wondering if Jihoon is going to object to his choice of words or the way he’s petting the little kiss curls at the nape of his neck. Seungcheol half expects him to pull away with a condescending roll of his eyes, but instead he just sighs a little, drops his chin closer to his sternum. Some hot and feral thing unfurls in Seungcheol’s chest, and his voice feels rough in his throat when he says again: “Good kitten.”

The moment’s interrupted a second later when the car behind them honks, loudly, signalling the light has turned green, and Seungcheol reluctantly withdraws his hand to change gears.

There aren’t any more red lights to stop at for the rest of the drive and that’s just as well; the way Jihoon settles back into his seat and stares at him through heavy-lidded eyes has Seungcheol wondering if he’ll be content with just dropping him off at his door when they get there.

* * *

In the end, he doesn’t have much choice in the matter.

By the time they finally make into Jihoon’s apartment building and into an elevator—Jihoon is already slurring his words and listing to one side. He might have tipped over completely if Seungcheol hadn't corralled him into one corner and propped him up with an arm around his shoulders.

Pushing the button for Jihoon’s floor, Seungcheol stands back, hand slipping down to rest on Jihoon's hip to steady him as the elevator lurches into motion. It’s an automatic gesture, innocent, protective—at least that’s what _he_ thinks.

Jihoon must interpret it differently.

His lashes dip, gaze travelling slowly down the length of Seungcheol’s arm to where his hand rests over the swell of one hip, and he whispers, “I’m wearing my new thong.”

Seungcheol's stomach does a vertical leap.

He pulls back so he can better see Jihoon’s expression, takes in the pensive twist to his mouth, flushed cheeks and hesitant gaze, and a fresh bead of want ignites low in his gut. He wants nothing more than to grasp Jihoon firmly by the back of the head and pull him in for a hard, claiming kiss.

He reins in the urge somehow, long enough to croak out a barely coherent, “R-really?”

Jihoon nods slowly. Eyes still averted, he lifts a hand to Seungcheol’s shoulder and begins brushing specks of snow off his coat. “It was really pretty. I….I had to try it on. I haven’t wanted to wear one in ages, but you bought it for me and….is it weird that you make me want to wear thongs?”

Seungcheol stares at him, a flush creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

He thinks he ought to say something, but he feels a little bit like Jihoon has sucked all of the air out of the room, and he can’t wrap his mind around what words he would use. He doesn’t know what words he _wants_ to use. He wants to say, _I’m glad to hear it_ , but he also wants to say, _I_ _almost came in my pants imagining you wearing it._

“I don’t think it’s weird.” He finally manages, plaintively, already beginning to sweat.

“I took a picture too.” Jihoon adds, with a smile on his pretty mouth and the best kind of mischief brewing in his eyes. “I was going to send it to you—but then I thought _‘that’s not very professional—Seungcheol will be mad.’_ So…so I didn’t.”

Seungcheol swallows thickly, trying and failing to ignore the hot thrum of his pulse as it speeds his blood, “It’s _not_ very professional—but I wouldn’t have been mad.”

The fingers stroking Seungcheol’s shoulder still, any pretence of snow having long disappeared into the fabric of his coat.

“Maybe I should send it.” Jihoon says, tongue flicking out, skidding over his lower lip.

Seungcheol sucks in a steadying breath and rests a hand against the elevator wall, caging Jihoon in. He hates that his answer is nothing more than a whisper. 

“Maybe you should.”

Jihoon finally meets his gaze, and his eyes are as bright as Seungcheol’s ever seen them. But there’s a sense of warmth underneath; a low, simmering heat. Seungcheol isn't sure he's ever noticed it before and its implications have him rooted in place.

Neither of them move.

The entire world seems to be holding its breath.

Jihoon's eyes are shouting at him to do something, and Seungcheol wants to— _God_ , he wants to—

The elevator lurches to a stop, dragging him back to reality and Seungcheol is suddenly aware of everywhere they’re touching—Jihoon’s hand curled over his shoulder, one of his own resting on the wall next to Jihoon’s head, the other curled around his waist—just a slide of his thumb against a smooth stripe of exposed skin.

Seungcheol quickly leans back, shaking himself off.

“C’mon, this is our stop,” he says, and is shocked at how fucking _low_ his own voice sounds, like they’re in the middle of a sex instead of standing in an elevator together.

Jihoon blinks owlishly when he pulls away, but when Seungcheol holds out his hand he takes it, allows Seungcheol guide him out of the elevator and into the corridor without protest. When they reach his door, he takes a moment to fish out his key to unlock it—but stops with his hand resting on the door handle. 

“Would you like to come in?” He says in a small voice, interrupting the whirl of Seungcheol's thoughts. “Seokmin’s working late. It would—it would just be us.”

There’s a distracting amalgam of uncertainty and hunger in his eyes when he finally raises his head to look at Seungcheol.

It's not a look Seungcheol has seen on him before—they've lived so much in each other’s pockets the past few months, there are few expressions he _hasn't_ seen on Jihoon's face—but never like this. Never directed at _him_. Never with quite so hesitant an air of self-consciousness and doubt along for the ride.

There's no mistaking this for anything but an offer. An offer of greedy hot, clumsy, sweaty sex. But a drunken offer, nevertheless.

Seungcheol chuckles despite himself, “I don’t think that’s a good idea Jihoon—you’re _drunk_.”

Jihoon ducks his head, hair falling into his face, sweetly shy about propositioning him in a way that shouldn't be endearing, but really is.

“Yeah, I...I think you’re right.”

Seungcheol puts a hand on his shoulders and squeezes. “So you see _why_ that would be a very irresponsible thing for me to do, don’t you? I’d be taking advantage.”

Jihoon darts a glance at him then, a soft, confused expression in his eyes that suggests he’s possibly too drunk to remember what they’re even _talking_ about anymore. Then he cements that possibility into fact not a second later, swaying backwards a little as he turns to look up and down the corridor.

“W-wait—am I at home already? How did I _get_ here?”

Seungcheol lets out a weary sigh, low and quiet, and then slams the door on all those messy wants and tangled intentions of his. 

“Let’s get you inside, yeah? I’ll help you get into bed.” He suggests, keeping his tone as light as he can.

Lighter than he feels, anyway, with his mood suddenly split three ways between fond amusement, aching desire and frustration at the fact that Jihoon’s so out of it he probably won’t remember any of this come morning.

He’s drunk enough that it’s likely they’ll never speak about it again, and even if by some miracle he still remembers his proposition after he sobers up, Seungcheol doubts they’ll ever get the chance to pick up where they left off.

Just great.

* * *

By "help" Seungcheol hadn’t meant "do most of the work”—but to be fair, Jihoon has become fairly useless at this point. Especially with any tasks that require grace, coordination and motor skills.

To begin with, he trips over his own shoelaces as he attempts to untie them, and almost faceplants into the floor. Then he sways from side to side as he tries to navigate the corridor, looking for all the world like a new-born baby lamb taking its first steps. Eventually Seungcheol shepherds him into his room and urges him under the covers, but not before Jihoon stops to say ‘Hello’ to all his stuffed animals.

Every bloody one of them.

Honestly—even off his face like this, he remembers all their names. 

“Who’s turn is it tonight?” Seungcheol asks, tucking the covers in around Jihoon’s shoulders, “Larry?”

Jihoon shakes his head, the cotton sheets rustling around him. “Berry Beret.”

Seungcheol doesn’t resist the wave of smug satisfaction that crests over him at hearing that. “Oh yeah—” He grins proudly as he fetches said plushie from amongst its stuffed toy brethren. “He your favourite now?”

“Of course—” Jihoon nods groggily, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He plucks Berry Beret from Seungcheol’s grasp and tucks him under his chin, turning his head this way and that before snuggling further down into his mattress. “You gave him to me. That makes him extra special.”

Seungcheol smiles, feeling his heart miss two beats before it begins slowing back to normal.

All the things that he could say to Jihoon pass single-file through his head in that moment. That there's this spot on the inside of his wrist that is the softest thing Seungcheol's ever touched. That Seungcheol can still catch the scent of his hair hours after he's gone. That he's the closest Seungcheol's ever come to being able to love someone, or even wanting to. That in Seungcheol’s nightmares, Jihoon’s always the one in danger. And that there's a dark, angry part of him that only Jihoon’s light can reach.

But he accepts that this isn’t the time, nor the place, and confessing your heartfelt devotion to a drunkard is as fleeting as a sandcastle at low tide.

He looks away instead, trying to will away the rush of blood in his ears. “Merry Christmas Peanut.”

Jihoon lets out another small yawn, and murmurs, “Merry Christmas…Cheol,” eyes drifting closed before he even finishes the sentence.

Against his better judgement, Seungcheol finds himself taking a seat at the edge of the bed and brushing his fingertips over the back of Jihoon’s hand.

In a moment, he’ll go. Just one moment more. But for now, he allows himself to look, because lying there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling shallowly, hair loose and falling messily across the pillow, Jihoon looks like— _dare he say it_ —sleeping fucking beauty.

Cheesy, yeah, but undeniably true.

Some mischievous instinct has Seungcheol leaning in, just close enough to brush a kiss against Jihoon’s lips. Just a chaste thing, soft, gentle, but Jihoon’s mouth is almost unbearably soft, and it gives under his own, in a way that Seungcheol isn't prepared for at all. It takes every shred of self-control he’s got to pull back, and when he does, it’s to a potent look of disapproval.

Not from Jihoon, obviously, cause his little Peanut is still fast asleep, eyes closed and smiling dreamily. But from Berry Beret, the lucky bastard, who seems to have adopted a strangely censorious look for an inanimate object.

Seungcheol narrows his eyes dangerously in return, “Don’t get too comfortable pal, he’s mine.” He breathes out a sigh, staring with despair at the line of Jihoon's lower lip. “I…I just haven’t figured out _how_ yet.”


End file.
